


Cherry Soda Boy

by Sardonic_Grin



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020), Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Cleno, Cloud Strife Needs a Hug, Cloud talks like he's from New York, CloudxReno, Drug Dealing, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Aerith Gainsborough/Cloud Strife, Minor Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife, Minor Zack Fair/Cloud Strife, Multi, Pre-Slash, Recreational Drug Use, Reno has a southern accent, Romance, Self-Hatred, Self-Medication, Slash, Slow Burn, Smart Reno (Compilation of FFVII), Staten Island, Young Sephiroth (Compilation of FFVII)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 260,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23821528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sardonic_Grin/pseuds/Sardonic_Grin
Summary: "It’s 2004 and not caring is trendy. You’re only as cool as the lack of a shit you give about anything, or anyone, especially yourself.This is the part I play, and I’ve played it well."Cloud Strife is sixteen, dealing drugs, and self-medicating on alcohol. And he's fine with well that traveled road.Until Reno decides to inject himself into his life, tear up that path, and challenge Cloud every step of the way.[Modern High School AU]
Relationships: Reno/Cloud Strife
Comments: 274
Kudos: 368
Collections: all time favourites





	1. God of Scapegoats

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-write/re-make of a story I wrote when I was sixteen and published way back in 2005 on FF.net. After years of attempting to re-write this as an original, I decided to go back to my roots and publish it under the Final Fantasy VII tag. This takes place in Staten Island, New York in the year 2004. The references maybe dated. However, unfortunately, some fo the sensitive topics covered are still an issue today. There's mention of drug use, suicide, and a slew of problematic behavior coming from certain character's that are a reflection of the mentality during that year in that city. I'll try to leave trigger warnings where they apply; if I miss anything, feel free to contact mean. I'm learning. I want to make this fiction accessible, but my intention is to also highlight the ignorance and hypocrisy of Staten Island, and the children who were lost because of it.
> 
> TLDR; This is a Cleno fanfiction that takes place at a fictional high school in my very real city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Cherry Soda Boy**

**Chapter One: God of Scapegoats**

My generation was forged from the ashes of the New York Skyline. Fractured. Broken, We came of age in an era of abundance and innovation, and barely after the panic of Y2K had subsided, the world was three thousand lives lighter-and the safety and security we as Americans had long taken for granted was violently stripped away, leaving its youth the most vulnerable. The future that had once been certain was now a dimly lit dream.

I could die at any moment.

My fate was not in my control.

A mad man with a fetish for flames could set this rock on fire, and all that religion, and politics, and money would do nothing to keep us from returning to ash.

Maybe that’s why we turned towards anarchy-a complete disregard for our own mortality. 

We were a generation that lacked morals and conviction. Raised by pixelated parents, whose blue rays of hope numbed us. While the wraiths that created us scurried through, weary eyed, and half drunk off the weight of the world, and barely attempting to curve our growing apathy.

But they had their blame game.

So we had no responsibilities. 

My friend would argue that I am too much of a pessimist and I would argue that word is too light to describe me.

Fatalistic. 

I never apologized for it either.

My parents couldn’t possibly understand this language I spewed, and I never tried to translate my motives. 

“You can’t help someone who won’t help themselves.”

_ If I had a nickel… _

You can’t help someone who acts without reason. Or maybe you can. My therapist thought she could with blue pills.

“You’re anxious.”

Uh. Fucking Duh?

The whole damn world was teetering on global destruction. The movies were real. And everybody is scrambling to make sure they aren’t one of the red shirts. Chaos. Burning our flag next to the bodies, calling for our annihilation- because they “hate our freedom”? “Extremist.   
“In the name of their god.” I have to be afraid of air travel, and my own city, and anyone who looks different.

But that’s not why I did it.

It was the perfect scapegoat through. My Azazel. 

And now I have no responsibility. 

My life, the only thing I could control.

Not my neighbors. My parents. My peers. Or the actions of my government. I couldn’t even control my emotions. Couldn’t drown them in cheap poison. Push them on to the back burner and turn up the heat. Melt them like they were something tangible. 

It didn’t go according to plan, but nothing ever does. Like a collapsing building, I made too much noise when I hit the ground. And I didn’t have the balls to cut deep enough.

But I traded enough blood for exemption. So in a way I got what I wanted in the end. Pumped with enough chemicals, I no longer cared about the world spontaneously exploding. Or what my neighbors thought of me. I didn’t care about the girl who overdosed on my sixteenth birthday. Even less about myself or the consequences of my reckless actions. And I had two pretty scars on my wrists that I could hide behind.

And as I approached my junior year with these half-baked accusations, I’m forced to wonder if there is even a point. 

Why am I alive? 


	2. Chapter Two: Dolos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud stares into the sunset on the last day of summer vacation. And Sephiroth becomes your typical Staten Island bro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Some references to drugs.   
> Use of some troubling language.

** Chapter 2- Dolos **

It’s the two-year, 2 month anniversary of my death and I am celebrating with a menthol cigarette and a Mike’s Hard Lemonade I fished out of the cooler that’s been a staple in the corner of my backyard since Memorial Day Weekend. Taking short sips of stale sweetness in between long drags, I stare out into the pink and yellow sunset from the comfort of a blue lawn chair in the backyard of my 5000 square foot mansion settled in the heart of Todt Hill. 

Well. not my mansion. More like my parents ornate monstrosity, that's entirely too large for a three person family who do everything in their power to avoid it and each other. In fact, at this exact moment, my parents are nowhere to be found. Just me, the cheap form of alcohol, and all the richest in the world. You’d think they would want to celebrate- that despite my best laid plans and a total lack of trying, I made it to the dawn of junior-year with hardly even a scratch. 

Then again, it was Labor Day weekend and I’m sure the plethora of bbqs and promises of day drinking were a much better alternative to sulking in the dusty darkness of the living room, fighting for conversation. 

I know I was invited to my share of gatherings this weekend. And I made promises to be at all…

And yet, here I sit, melting into this chair while my phone vibrates angrily in my jean pocket. I guess I should feel flattered that I have people vying for my attention; and who enjoy the company of the melancholy boy with sad blue eyes. But the motivation to move has completely evaporated. I can’t even find it in me to bring the cigarette to my mouth to feel that sweet burn….

Ashes to Ashes. 

I flicked what remained in the pool. 

I feel like my lungs are filled with water half the time. And when I try to speak, my tongue swells. Or it doesn’t really. More like my lips are sewed shut. 

I’m afraid I’ll try to talk and vomit will come out instead of words. This isn’t exactly how I want to start junior year of high school. 

I hear the sounds of sneakers against wood; I’m suddenly happy I’m wearing sunglasses.

“Yo, asshole, I’ve been calling you for an hour.” Seph appears from behind the fence looking slightly irritated with his fist clenched in his pockets, but his voice is low and almost neutral- as if he’s repeating the opening line to a song we always sing. 

“I’m enjoying the view.”I take a sip of my drink; it’s as warm as flat soda and I nearly gag.

“There’s a bonfire in New Dorp Beach.” He welcomes himself to the empty seat next to me, pulling out a box of cloves.

“Oh yes,” I sigh, “That’s what I want to do. Hang out in the woods surrounded by bugs and twelve year olds, just to be chased out by some overzealous cops.”

“There’ll be bitches,” he snarks, “and hoes.”

“Oh word? You convinced me.” 

“Stop being such a pussy, bro,” he kicks me with his new pair of white Jordans his dad probably bought him, “you can’t sit here on the last free night before school starts. Everybody is going to be there.”

“But I hate everyone.”

He leans back dramatically and huffing like a child who was denied dessert. I know I’ll eventually join the rest of Staten Island’s delinquents at the final party of the summer- like that even means anything since there’s always a party somewhere no matter the season-- because that is what’s expected of me. And there I will find some superficially pretty girl. I’ll litter her brain with false promises. I’ll watch her eyes flutter. Her smile widened. She’ll play with her hair and lean into me. She’ll look exactly like the girl from last weekend, and the weekend before, and the weekend before that. I’ll recite all the right words and time my smiles appropriately, and read off this script until the red and blue flashing lights signal the end of the scene. 

And I’ll do the same shit next weekend. 

With some different girl.

I stare into infinity. The pastel swirls of light having given way to the twilight and in the distance, the Manhattan skyline twinkles to life. The pop of fireworks echoes against the faded dance music coming from one of my neighbors backyard bashes. Seph is now on the phone and the flirtatious tone suggests someone on the other end he wants to make a tally on his headboard. And the cigarette I drowned floats aimlessly through the gentle waves of chemically blue water- and I can’t help but find myself relating more to carcinogens than organic people. 

“Hey, fucker,” Seph shouts in my direction, “You coming or being a faggot?”

I resist the urge to scrunch my nose in disgust, “Yeah, fine. I’m coming. Jesus Christ.” I get up, chucking the half empty bottle into the pool. 

“You...gonna change?”

I examine my attire for the evening: faded jeans decorated in rips and tears from Warped Tour and a black Slipknot shirt. A black and white plaid shirt is resting on the floor next to me and I grab it much to Seph’s chagrin. “What?”

“You look like you’re trying too hard to be Kurt Cobain,” he shakes his head, “You going to do something about that hair?”

“Fuck you, what’s wrong with my hair!”

  
“When was the last time you washed it?”

I shrug, “I don’t know yesterday? The day before? What does it matter? It’s hot as balls anyway.”

“You’re such a dirtbag, Strife. How are you going to get laid looking like a creep that hangs out in front of Hot Topic?”

His smile is disruptive; curved like he’s eyeing up a fresh kill. I rack my brain with a counter shot-- something about looking like a lobster with a blow-out. Typical Staten Island Douchebag uniform complete with white wife-beater and silver chain around his neck. His jeans are Armani though, so he’s a fuck boy with a credit card.

But I crack my neck like I’m about to drop some knowledge on him, “Think of all that emo pussy I get though.”

He burst out laughing; I realize he pulled the phone from his ear and I hear a chorus of static laughter emitting from his Motorolla Razer, “You fucking ass. Go get ready and let’s go!”

No fucking respect. I sulk into my house which is chilled to the core and drenched in the summertime darkness. I pass through the kitchen which hasn’t been used since the woman we hired to cook quit about a month ago, dodge the vacant stares of family portraits of what I could only imagine were happier times, and duck into one of four bathrooms. 

I rip off the sunglasses. 

My eyes are bloodshot and puffy. 

I splash some cold water on my face. Take a deep breath. 

Seph was right about the hair. The greasy blonde strands are out for themselves; sticking up in every direction. I don’t even make an attempt to fix this mess. It’s 2004 and not caring is trendy. You’re only as cool as the lack of a shit you give about anything, or anyone, especially yourself. 

This is the part I play, and I’ve played it well. 


	3. The Sad Clown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud lectures Sephiroth on everything wrong with their school. Sephiroth is more concerned with his hair than his friend.   
> Also, mistakes from last night are addressed.

** Chapter Three: The Sad Clown **

I hear my phone ringing somewhere under the mess of clothes that was my room. The vibrations hitting the wood gently woke me from the deep alcohol driven slumber. And I find myself lying in the pool of blue and gray striped sheets. Shirtless, but still wearing the pants from the night before, I pull myself up into a sitting position and survey my environment. The sun is blaring through the window illuminating the blue paint which covers the walls. The dust particles drift through the air in slow motion. Everything is tilted.

That’s when the headache appears. 

I mumble and drop my knees to the floor as I begin my search for the elusive phone, only to find it underneath an abandoned shoe. 

“I’m here,” I sputter into the phone, suddenly tasting the balls of Satan in my mouth. “I’m awake.”

“Bro, I’m outside, hurry your ass up.” Seph sounds only mildly agitated.

“Yeah, I’ll be down in a second.”

I flip my phone closed and drop it onto the floor with a thud. The time on the front screen screams 7:00 am. 

I have an hour before junior orientation starts. I don’t even have enough time to dwell on the creeping hangover that is my life. 

I inhale and pull myself together enough to shower away the longer musky scent of liquor and whatever that chicks knock off perfume was. I still taste her on my lips and I brush my teeth till they bleed just to forget the way her tongue found its way into my mouth despite clenching my jaw. I took two tylenols on an empty stomach just to chase the headache that pulses on the bridge of my nose away. I know this is all a temporary fix.

Like a robot I dress myself in the uniform for Saint Sebastian Academy. Navy slacks too heavy for the humid summer weather. A white button down shirt that is immediately covered by a matching two button navy blazer, with fake side pockets and our school’s emblem- a red and white shield with a black drawn bow and arrow pointing up- eloquently stitched right over our heart. I struggle with the red tie; swooping and pulling in incoherent directions to form a lopsided pratt knot. 

Nothing could be done about the hair though. I know they will send me to detention if it isn’t styled in accordance with school regulation, but they’d have to survive for one week or until I can convince Tifa to cut the locks for me. My face was the real issue. I touch the blotchy red spots on my cheeks that form when I drink entirely too much. Dark circles painted around my eyes as they burn a red that matches my tie. Dark red. The heavy sienna lightning in the school’s auditorium would be my friend this morning; hiding every obvious flaw.

There was a girl who used to say I was handsome. Even like this. When I saw myself in the reflection of her two perfectly circled green eyes, I almost believed her. 

My phone is going off again. The time screams 7:35am. It’s twenty minutes from my house to school- on a good day. I grab my sunglasses- for a reprieve from my over-critical mind-and my keys and wallet join my phone in the back pocket of my pants. 

My house is as still as the night before. If my parents are home I wouldn’t know. It’s too early for mom to grace the world with her semi-conscious body, and my dad has probably snuck out early to the safety of his four-walled office in Manhattan. My stomach protests as I approach the door, but it’s futile.The kitchen is completely stripped of any edible items for quite a while. I keep hoping Claudia Strife will drag her bony frame to a grocery store to stock our fridge and pantry. And she continues to disappoint me. 

However, Seph comes in clutch as he chucks a Dunkin Donuts bag at my face when I sit in the car. The sweet smell of cooked bacon fills my nose and I resist the urge to tear apart the brown bag like a rabid dog. 

“Thanks honey.”

Seph glares at me from behind aviators. “Fuck you, what took you so long?” 

“I was trying to find my head. What time did we get home?”

He peels out of the spot in front of the beige brick prison that is my house with an echoing screech, that definitely had the stay-at-home moms rushing to their windows.

“I don’t know,” he chuckles, ”I don’t even remember  _ how _ we got home.”

“...but you drove?” I stop chewing my breakfast sandwich, “That’s really not good.

“Swallow your food you god damn animal! He shouts, “and be careful, if I get anything on upholstery my dad will lose his shit.” He clenches his jaw at the thought.

Seph looks more put together. His uniform hugs his six-foot frame much better than mine, which I notice the sleeves riding up my wrists. His silver hair cut short but with enough length to flip up the front. People used to mistake us for brothers with the way our noses slope, but his face is chiseled as if carved out of stone and as clear as the day he was born.. The two rows of pearly whites that sit behind tense lips are a gift from genetics, and he was spared the suffering of four years of braces-unlike me.

The Staten Island scenery flies past the window, with brown and gray buildings giving way to the big green trees of the south shore. Seph speeds down Richmond Road way above the speed limit, as if he is eager to get to school on time or has a death wish he hasn’t shared with me. His system is up- the hottest hip hop for the new millennium pulses out of the open windows of his white 2003 Lexus hand-me-down he received from his father for his sixteenth birthday. He is one of the lucky few juniors blessed with an early birthday and a mode of transportation- relieving my mother of the burden of driving us in and out of school- and increasing his already bursting popularity with the ladies. 

Seph’s the guy every high school student strives to emulate-whether consciously or subconsciously. And he knows it. Every red light he checks himself in the rearview mirror- carefully gliding his fingers over the gel soaked tips of silver. Cocking his head side to side to ensure every pesky facial follicle was taken care of. Satisfied by the green light he continues his mad dash towards the muted brick structure tucked away in the woods of Tottenville. 

“I see this year's tuition went towards that fancy new gold cross.” I observe as we pull into the parking lot, the gross example of religious greed reflecting the car in its golden ridges as it hangs obviously over the two grand doors- the entrance to prime education. “I bet we still have the textbooks that refer to the 1992 election as something to look forward to.”

“What does it matter? Everyone knows they don’t teach shit passed World War 2.” 

“Is that something we should just be okay with?” I counter to my friends exhausted huff. “Our parents tank so much money into this place just for tuition-- not to mention the hounding they get for donations throughout the year- you’d think the education we receive would be on par with the other academies in the city. But we are stuck using books and supplies that would make Tifa’s school laugh.”

“The money goes to sports, Cloudie, that’s important,” He smiles and winks- Seph’s 100% serious as the newly inducted co-captain of the varsity baseball team, and up-and-coming star pitcher. 

“Some of us don’t have the luxury of being athletic.”

“You just don’t try. You just bitch.”

“Fuck you, tell me where I’m wrong? You think it’s right? The shovel us into this god forsaken place, throw mind numbing work at us, that really has no relation to the real world, then grade us on how much we’ve conformed to their ideologies. Go ahead, I dare you to challenge one of these burnt out teachers on something. Even if you are right, they shut you up with a detention slip and a trip to Palmer.”

“Are you still pissed Mr. Hiedegger gave you detention ‘cause of what you wrote as your final paper?

“I stand firmly that teaching an abridged version of  _ Romeo and Juliet _ perpetuates the misguided notion that it is a love story and not a commentary on allowing emotions to dominate your life. And telling me that I am  _ wrong _ in my interpretation of a fuckin play that was written hundreds of years ago is bullshit. You know it. I know it. That fat fuck Heideggar knows it!”

Seph stares at me for a long time, one eyebrow arched up. I’m waiting for his lecture- the “just shut up, no one cares about school. We are paying for a name to get into college, not an education. Stop being that loser in class that argues with everyone for no reason. Get a hobby. Join a sport.” Instead, he goes simple: “You need to get laid already.”

Car turned off. He exits and slams the door behind him, leaving me in the tomb of heat and humidity. Out the closed window, I watch as Cid and Barrett approach Seph from the direction of the bus stop. They exchange strained handshakes pulled into half hugs. The Staten Island male greeting. A little more icy in recent months. 

The three shift awkwardly, probably engaging in small talk about last night's shenanigans- which I remember 50% of:

As was tradition, the other members of our group met Seph and I in front of the 7/11 on New Dorp Lane. 

Cid lives on Greeley Avenue, a good seven blocks away, in a modest middle class home with his mother and two younger brothers. He is gruff, sharp around the edges, and usually with a cigarette- that he stole from me- planted in his mouth. He embraced the neo-punk rebellion like a textbook entry. Denim vest with patches of his favorite anti-establishment trademarks and spikes he bought from Spencers. A shirt with an obscure English band’s logo in black and white. Jeans ripped worse than mine- but due to the same concert tragedy. When he didn’t have to worry about the school breathing down his neck, his hair was every shade of the rainbow. But now, back to the short dirty-blonde and shifting as if his uniform is a straight jacket. 

Barrett lives in the white stoned apartments near the train tracks- a metaphor he acknowledged and wore like an armor. He knew what the school thought of him, students and faculty alike. The mothers whispered that the color of his skin was his ticket into the school. Not his average in 8th grade or the fact he excelled in football the way Seph dominated baseball or that his father also graduated from Saint Sebastian's. A fact they always seem to willingly forget. He rode the train and walked five blocks to meet us at the convenience store- though he was always the last to arrive and first to leave. He had arrived after we convinced a crackhead to buy us a 30 pack in exchange for five dollars. He and Cid act like they will “pay us back” but we never ask them. What’s the point? They don’t have guilt money. 

With our powers combined, we made our way to the beach. Ducking through tick infested brush and stepping over heroine needles, until we hear the untuned acoustic guitar playing  _ Wonderwall _ over shrill screams and the crashing waves. 

Cid and Barrett were the two responsible ones. After drinking their fair share of cheap beer they didn’t purchase, they stumbled home before ten p.m. Before their respective mother’s could miss them.--

I tried to remember the time on the clock when I crawled up the stairs but, instead, I’m gifted to head splitting darkness. 

I exhale as if coming up for air and decide to join the three. I’m barely completely out of the car when Cid’s body collides with mine and I nearly fall. He’s screaming something in my ear, and if I had the fucking strength and didn’t drink it all away last night, I could probably have gotten the psycho off of me. But his arms are wrapped too tightly around mine. Constricted by a spikey- haired snake. 

No one’s helping. Barrett and Seph laugh- only time they do such a thing together when it’s at my expense. 

“Get off me, asshole!” I shout, trying to balance both our weight. He has clearly 3 inches on me, which doesn’t help, really, anything.

“I’m so proud of you,” He lifts me in the air, “you finally banged Jessie!”

“What?!” So  _ that’s  _ when the perfume came from. 

“No he didn’t,” Seph finally makes his way over, clutching his stomach from laughing, “not for a lack of trying on her part.”

I tense and finally plant my feet firmly on the group. I shoot Seph a glare who pauses his amusement to curve his smile into a sardonic smirk. “Don’t worry, Cloudie, I protected you.”

“You cock block him?” Barrett questions. 

“You should have seen him last night, bro! He couldn’t even stand up, she was taking advantage of him!” His concern is feigned. We all know. At the first sight of free ass wandering passed Seph’s eyes, he would abandon me to a pack of wolves. 

Wouldn’t be the first time. Probably not the last.

“Damn,” Cid releases me, “I guess it’s for the best. Probably wouldn’t even be able to get it up! Ha.”

“It’s  **really** strange how  **interested** in my sex life you all are-”

“Not me,” Barrett takes a few steps back, “That shits weird.”

“It beats listening to him cry over Aerith.” Seph counters sharply. “Been telling him to get laid since August.”

My stomach churns and last night's booze threatens to make an encore. 

Barrett pauses, as if even weighing the options and nods in agreement. 

Traitor. 

“Fuck all of you,” I fix my jacket, wrinkled even more from Cid’s outbursts, and shoot Seph a pseudo warning. “Let’s go. We’re going to be the only assholes who get detention on the first day back.”

I push past them- a nerve struck- as they chuckle. The only time they are in-sync. Like a chorus with years of practice singing to the sad clown. 


	4. Irony

** Chapter Four: Irony **

Pointless. One word to sum up orientation. 

Speeches from administrators.

Presentations from various clubs- 

Book club, and law club, and Religion club; just in case you didn’t get enough God in the first six hours of your day.

The coaches remind the returning players of their responsibility to the school. The image they must maintain. With cheshire smiles cemented to monochromatic white faces. They chatter like those cheap wind-up teeth kids win at the arcade. 

I go in and out. Forcing my eyes to remain open; but weights carried by the voices of the same adults I’ve listened to for the last two years seem to drag them down. Everyime darkness envelops me, flashes from last night blink like photographs. Standing by the fire with a PBR- and then it flies away when Barret’s elbow hits my ribs-

Then being dragged by a tiny girl with long brown hair who smells like Bath and Body Works in the mall- Cid laughs and my eyes fly open. 

He’s laughing at a corny joke from his coach- wrestling. 

Maybe it wasn’t corny.

I somehow survive the torture just as I feel my jaw lock. I fight past the need to empty my entire stomach onto either Barret or Cid as we exit the auditorium and file towards the cafeteria to get our schedules for the upcoming year. I fall behind my two friends- Seph long gone, having linked up with his baseball buddies. Cid and Barrett were discussing the classes they would be in together- for sure- both two of the brightest in the group. No way they wouldn’t be in honors and AP with the rest of the overachievers. I’ll be in the painfully average classes. The ones who float just under the radar; the minimalist. Passing just enough that getting rid of us would look worse than just letting us fly by. 

I stare at the floor- watching as my scuffed leather shoes moved like a robot down the line, wondering if I could pass a sobriety test. Definitely still drunk. It takes every bit of concentration to keep pace with the rest of the crowd and not stumble over my feet. Hoping the cluster of bodies would block the watchful eyes of the teachers and I would be spared a lecture. I am so engrossed in that activity that I don’t see the opening that forms in front of me. Or the body attempting to B-line for the doors until we collide into each other.

It feels like I am run over by an unyielding brick wall. I’m not sure how that is possible, but that’s the only way to explain the sensation of being both bulldozed, that I stumble forward and almost meet the floor, and the fact the culprit stands completely unphased, with his face curled in the most gnarly scowl. 

“Why don’t you watch where the  _ fuck _ you’re going?” He spats. 

I snap out of my post-drunk, ran over by a fucking car, stupor and lock eyes with him. Two narrow slits with sparkles of blue stare back. New eyes. I can’t even focus on the stranger’s sleek facial features, when his flame-red hair, styled in a long faux-hawk like one of the tryhards at the skate part, steals my attention. 

“Why don’t you get a better fucking haircut?” I do not even register those words tumbling out of my mouth until his scowl curls into a smile and he relaxes his eyes. Suddenly, I feel judged under the pressure of his stare. Allowing his eyes to sample my entire being- like a robot analyzing for weaknesses. 

“Why don’t you take a fucking shower? You smell like ass.” His voice suddenly lacks the conviction from before; smooth like perfectly aged whiskey. With a twang that follows his words like an unwanted sibling. 

And I clench my jaw, because I don’t want him-or anyone who would be in ear shot- to even think that offended me. But I take a mental note that I need to shower again. “Why don’t you stop smelling people you don’t know? That’s a little weird, guy.  _ And I took a shower.” _

“You better get some new soap then,  _ bro _ .”

“I’ll get right on that,  _ buddy.” _

“Well I am so glad I was able to help you,  _ dude.” _ His voice drips with such sharp sarcasm, I think of cutting out his tongue if I could get away with such an action. 

“Well,” I say, trying to form some kind of comeback, but I feel that water in my lungs again. Or is it the bile from my stomach? And wouldn’t that just be so poetic to vomit all over this guy. Who I’ve never seen before. Who has a crooked smile on his face. A twinkle in his eyes. Like he knows me for years; but I would have remembered that hair. Bright, angry, hair. As messy as my life. 

“Well,” he rolls his eyes, “This was a very engaging conversation. I wonder if all of ya’ll are as articulate as you are-”

“Who the  _ fuck  _ says ya’ll. You some fuckin’ hick from Texas?” I laugh, hoping or expecting his smile to drop. His eyes to narrow. To grumble and walk away at my gross overgeneralization of all Texans. 

No. He tilts his head to the side, gives me one more look over. I’m suddenly self-conscious of my uniform. The wrinkles that bunch at unfortunate areas. The way my hair falls over my face, even with being washed, looks as greasy as it was the night before. The red in my cheeks. The circles around my eyes. How obvious it is to anyone walking past me that I am living last night's mistakes. And I am not even sure why I am completely bothered by this intrusion of my space. And why I didn’t walk away immediately. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,  _ pretty boy? _ ” 

There’s no counter for that one- and he doesn’t leave me a chance. He saunters away trying to disappear in the crowd of matching blue and white uniforms. Him and his hair engulfed by the monotony of brown and blondes as quickly as he appeared. And I start to wonder if I was still sleeping off last night alcohol. If he was a figment of drug induced imagination. Only Jesus on the cross knew what I did last night. And if my name wasn’t suddenly, and aggressively, leaving the mouth of Mr. Hojo, I’d would have stood there looking as dumb as I feel in this moment.

Who the fuck is that guy?

~*~*~**~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The first day of school, Seph abandons me as soon as he sees an opening, leaving me with no ride home. His baseball bros taking precedence over his life-long friend, but I try not to take it personally. I know once he’s run out of options to run away from home, he’ll be knocking on my side door asking for refuge. And I’ll open it, as I always do. 

My mother decides to not answer her phone- begging the question why she even bothers having one in the first place- and I was resigned on taking the bus home until Cid’s mother nearly shoved me in the car, sandwiched between Cid’s younger brothers Conner and Cole: 8 and 6 respectively. They use me as a personal punching bag for the twenty minute drive; screaming burning child questions in my ears in between yanking on my hair and kicking the back of the front seats. Cid tries to scold them, fails miserably. Samantha, the mother, usually has better control over her hoard of boys. But four days till the 11th and her knuckles are white as they clench the steering wheel and her eyes flushed, brimming with water that begs for some kind of release. Release that would have to wait until she drops the boys off at their respective sports and play dates, when she can have a moment to herself in the parking lot to sob in her car. 

Barret and I have found her there before. Last year, it was the Miller Field parking lot where she punched the steering wheel and screamed at no one. 

She didn’t see us, and we didn’t tell Cid. We all have our methods. 

When I am finally free of the prison of their four door sedan, Cid sticks his head out the window. “Halo later?”

I nod, “If you want to get your ass kicked. Yeah, I’m down.”

He flips me off as his mother whacks him across the back of the head and pulls away before I get in the door- not her usual M.O but we passed a McDonald’s on the way home which triggered Conner’s wail for the duration of the drive. 

I once pondered the thought of spawning children. I know better now. 

And not so much because of Cid’s siblings. 

I peek through the stained glass window that grace the two brown doors that represent the entrance to the house. I scan right to left; dining room, mud room with open entrance to the staircase, making for easy sneaking in and out of the house, and living room. A distorted image appears before me, like a Monet painting. On the white couch, with a plush gray blanket draped over her boney form, my mother’s body rests. I can barely make out the glass on the coffee table, the blue of the television illuminating her white skin so it glows a sickly hue.

When I walk in, she doesn’t stir. I give myself a moment to take the scene in: the pills she’s supposed to take for her anxiety are open and I feel my gut lurch. Next to them an empty glass that I can smell from my place in the living room.  _ One Life to Live _ or  _ As the World Turns _ on mute, her arm hanging off the couch with the remote still clutched in her fingers. If I hadn’t seen her chest gently rise and fall over the thin fabric of her nighty, I probably would have thought she was dead. 

Then again, when is someone truly dead?

Is it when their heart stops beating- stops pumping blood to the other organs, so they shrivel up, turn black, and cease to work. Or is it when your brain shuts down. Stops thought. Stops processing information from the other systems in our overly complex body. Or…maybe it’s when your soul evaporates…when you lack emotion or conviction or a fuckin personality. A zombie huddled in a mass of other zombies. Moaning. Arms stretched out searching for thought-  _ brains. _

When are we dead?

My mother moans loudly and rolls over the small couch. The thigh length nightie bunches up and she isn’t wearing any underwear. Her long boney legs are curled up to her stomach, and light brown hair stringy and knotty from lack of care falls over her once flawless face. 

I don’t think she means to be a drunk. I mean, it isn’t personal. Nothing to do with me. It is all her own doing- maybe even her choice- but it wasn’t personal, so I couldn’t be completely angry. I was merely annoyed with the minor inconvenience of having to frequently drag her drunk body up the stairs to the large, deep red and dark wood bedroom she apparently shares with my father. I am only slightly frazzled by the fact she is almost always wearing an ivory or lavender nightie that falls right at her thighs and cuts low enough to see the top of her chest; and god forbid, she actually wears underwear so when I pick up all 100 pounds of her, I can feel every inch of her flesh as if she is naked. She never stirs. She, my mother, probably doesn’t even deduce that her only son is rescuing her from the uncomfortable couch and the rest of the vodka- the latter she’ll crawl back to eventually like a starving baby yearning for a mother’s tit.

I stare at her for a while- her body laid out like a murder victim- and wonder how many more years she has left. She is young; thirty-eight. Thin. Beautiful once she slaps on some makeup to cover up the black circles around her eyes and brushes her greasy locks of hair. But I am sure her liver is slowly rotting away, as are her lungs from the smoking. And one day soon, her outside will fully resemble her inside. Nothing more than dying organs.

I’ve told her. In her stupor. How embarrassing it is to find her in this condition. She makes promises she breaks immediately, and continues the routine. Today, I decide to forgo the trip upstairs. I am in no condition to carry the extra weight when my whole 160, give or take, pounds of meat suit feels like a ton. 

“Ay, yo, ma,” I shout, but she only grumbles. “Did you get food?” She doesn’t respond. I gently kick her leg, “Claudia Strife, what’s for dinner tonight? Dad’s gonna be pissed.” If he even comes home tonight. “Come on, wake up and sleep it off upstairs. ” Where I can’t see you. 

“Cloud,” I cringe when my name leaves her chapped lips; always with a tinge of shock and disappointment. “Mommy had a rough day, let her sleep please?”

She thinks I’m four. Or stupid. Rough day? She woke up, that’s the extent of her rough day. And maybe I can relate, a bit. How frustrating it can be to go to sleep hoping that blackness could extend for eternity, only to be jolted to life and forced to face the consequences of surviving another night? No one asks to be alive. 

A soft sob drifts through the tense living room air and gives away to gentle snores. I let her win this round. Dad can come home, whenever he’s ready, and can deal with the corpse on the couch. 

I slink to my room where I nearly rip off the uniform. The tie literally had a strangled hold on my neck, and maybe the only reason why I couldn’t vomit the seven times my stomach begged for release. Now, I couldn’t throw up last night's woes; they are resigned to my chest until I can sleep it off. I toss my wallet, phone, and cigarettes on my bed and crawl around half naked looking for my basketball shorts when the phone, which had been silent all day, starts screaming one of Johnathan Davis’ verses. 

I look at the caller idea and know I’m in trouble. 

“Hey baby,” I sing-song. 

“Jessie? Really?” Tifa snaps. 

“Oh you sound mad,” I laugh, but my blood pressure rises. 

“I’m outside your house.”

Fuck. The one day I don’t drag my mother upstairs; consequence of my clouded mind. I should have expected this visit once Cid relayed the news of my indiscretion. 

“Stalker. Go through the basement entrance.” I hang up without saying goodbye- strike two- and grab the nearest pair of shorts and generic black shirt, and head to the basement. 

Seph’s only challenger for longevity is Tifa. We met in the daycare owned by her mother when we were three. Why my jobless mother had me in daycare, I have no idea. Smaller than the rest of my class, the larger toddlers often pushed me around. Until one day when Tifa bit one of my tormentors and drew blood. Friends ever since. And still, to this day, the only one of my allies that has inflicted harm on one of my bullies. Not even Seph rose a fist in my defense. From three on, Tifa and I were inseparable even when our academic careers took us through different schools. Every day, she came home with me, on the days when my mom was sober enough to retrieve us, and we spent the afternoons doing homework and playing video games. Our awkward stages coincided: braces for the both of us, glasses and frizzy hair for her, prominent facial features and a weight problem for me. Weekend at her house, trading Pokemon cards, arguing who was stronger in Dragon Ball Z, and secretly divulging how much we actually enjoyed Backstreet Boys.

I am the only boy allowed to sleep over- at least until her step-dad came into the picture and rightfully ended that trend. Though our parents had no idea, we explored each other in the ways children tend to do when trying to figure out their place in the world. And when it started to get too heavy for our young minds to process, we pulled back. Or I pulled back. Suddenly the innocence of our friendship evaporated, and under the guise of preserving our friendship, I stopped letting her kiss me under the covers. 

Her mother still muses over our potential, or inevitable, wedding. Has told Tifa to wait till after college and then I’ll be ready.  _ Boys mature much slower than girls _ . And it crushes me when I see Tifa pretend she isn’t thinking about the possibilities. Brushes it off in person, but her eyes betray her. I wonder, often when I lay awake and stare into the night, when she’s going to completely cut the thread that keeps us together. Lord knows it's overdue. I never drew blood for her. 

I open the basement door and Tifa greets me by shoving me aggressively, and I’m convinced she took two busses just to murder me. 

“You asshole!” She yells as she shoves me one more time, staring daggers at me with her big eyes that make her look far more innocent than I think she likes. 

“Shhh!” I wave her away, “My mom is taking a xanny nap upstairs.”

Once completely inside the basement/my man cave, she glares at me with her arms crossed over her chest in silence, as if waiting for me to start explaining myself.

While Tifa and I navigated our pre-teen angst together, she did- as her mother predicted- mature faster than I genetics wise. She stands before me, no longer the tiny twig wearing knee length denim shorts and a yellow Old Navy polo, and glasses that could never stay clean. Now, she’s wearing black Tripp pants that hug her hips so low, you can see her hip bones poking from underneath her skin. Fishnets underneath the Korn shirt I bought her for her birthday that looks like a crop top due to how...big...her chest got when she turned fourteen. Contacts replaced glasses, and it looks like she finally convinced her mom and step-dad to let her get the red ones that make her look like an Anime character. Her long black hair is smooth and straight, falling down past her elbows. The amount of black eyeliner that circles her eyes like a raccoon would make any emo band jealous. The chains on her pants rattle when she pivots her hips to show her displeasure with my silence. 

When she entered High School, she became the object of ever sad boy’s affection. All her friends, the low-lives from New Dorp High School, salivated over her like she was a piece of steak they needed to tear teeth into. Luckily, I shot up in Sophomore year and tower over her like a protective body guard. Barret never let me live down the times I got punched in the face and made me his training partner in between football seasons. And while I am pathetic by my school standards, the “rockers” she hangs out with are too doped up to really try to size me up. At least not yet. 

“Well,” she finally breaks the silence. 

“ _ Well?” _ I plop on the old floral couch my parents had in the 90s that smells of mothballs and stale beer. 

“Cloud. You kissed Jessie.” She falters in her tone; while I can hear the edge in her voice, it drips with a pathetic sadness. I’m not sure if she is gearing up for a lecture or pitying my actions. 

“I did?” My tone more sarcastic than I intended, “I don’t remember.” I’m not lying, but that doesn’t help. She drops her arms and disappointment flashes across her face. 

“Dammit, Cloud. She really likes you.”

Now I feel bad. 

It isn’t as if Jessie isn’t cute. She’s in that weird state of figuring out what High School stereotype she falls into. While she hangs out at the rocker tree with the rest of the New Dorp High School crew, she still enjoys wearing blue jeans and Bebe tank tops that hang low with Victoria Secret push-up bras that more often than not poke through. Her brown hair tied back in an effortless ponytail, with gold hoop earrings that swish when she talks dramatically; her hands flying like every other Italian girl from the North Shore. She acts tough. Her idea of flirting is threatening to beat you up. Her face is fine. Everything about her is  _ fine _ . 

“Did she say something about last night?” I try to be as nonchalant as possibly, daring to not make eye contact- staring, instead, at an old picture of the construction of the Verrazano Bridge that hangs like a discarded memory in the corner of the basement. 

Tifa takes a seat next to me on the couch, “She...wanted me to give you her number.”

“Are you?”

“Do…” she pauses. I bring my eyes to her for a moment and she’s chipping the black paint off her nails. Her fake eyes making friends with her lap instead of looking at me. “Do you like her?”

The question toils through my head. “I don’t know.” 

“She’s my friend.” The sharpened edge returns to her voice and my heart is beating against my chest like I’m being interrogated. 

“Well what the fuck do you want me to do?” I bite, and she flinches before the blank expression on her faces transforms to rage.    
  


“I want you to stop kissing my friends!”

I feel bad with the same intensity that I feel nothing for those friends. Except for one. But they are not friends anymore. And that’s also my fault. 

But I am not sure what to tell her. If I can even make a promise of never fooling around with the slew of girls that rotate in her group. I do want to ask if her concern is for her friends or for herself. If she’s jealous by the attention I give them. But that’s really narcissistic of me to even consider, even though her eyes are cracked with hurt and her cheeks flushed from trying to swallow her anger. 

“Sorry.” I force through my clenched teeth, “I was drunk.”

“That excuse,” she aggressively pushes herself off the couch, “is getting real fucking old, Cloud.”


	5. Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First day of official school, and Cloud feels stalked by an unwanted guest- at least that's what he wants you to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: A lot of smoking of Cigarettes in this Chapter.

Everything burns. 

I think as I inhale tar and poison from one of my other bad habits. I feel the heat from the butt of the cigarette caress my lips as it drags to the filter- daring the fire to singe my mouth and purify me of the sins I’ve committed with it. 

Nah, that’s too dramatic. 

I rip the Marlboro menthol from my lips and toss it to the ground to meet its inevitable death by the sole of my shoe. I blow the black smoke towards the school, leaning against the back of Seph’s car in the humidity with the birds as my only company. Time ticks slowly to the last possible minute- and I have to wonder if I am the masochist I’ve been accused of and actually asking to get detention the first week of school. 

Maybe. 

Seph left ages ago. Getting in trouble is not in the cards for him unless he wants to disappoint the coaches; and if he ever wants to see Captain next year, he’ll be smart and keep his head down low. Me? I have nothing holding me accountable for my actions except the desire to not be lectured by Principal Heideggar, or Vice Principal Palmer- who usually takes on the crap Heideggar rather not deal with- and avoiding a detention which includes copying a passage from the bible one hundred times. 

As if memorizing Hebrews 13:17 would get me to comply. 

“ Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they keep watch over your souls as those who will give an account. Let them do this with joy and not with grief, for this would be unprofitable for you.”

What a joke. I wonder if this was the vision God had when he created the Earth. That all his followers would be shepherd into a building to be lectured on how to act by suits who do the exact opposite and claim safety behind words they’ve manipulated. Though it would make sense. Kicking Adam and Eve out of paradise because they exercised free will- ate from the tree of knowledge. What good is freedom when you desire control? 

Or maybe I’m just jaded by the twelve years spent in Catholic School. 

The sound of a car catches my attention; and why I’ve waited in the heat exits the white Lexus pulled in front of the school. Though if anyone asked, my intention was never to see her; I’m here to smoke before I’m forced seven hours without my fix. It has nothing to do with the slim girl with wavy brown hair, and soft face that always looks concerned, currently speaking to her mother from outside the car. Her smile almost contagious. Her gentle laugh quiet yet loud enough it pricks my ears. She’s almost late- as always. One of the things that drove me nuts. Could never get her shit together. Always losing something. Her keys. Her shoes. She forgot her backpack once and we had to walk  _ all the way _ back to her house. Missed two classes and gained separated detentions. That day I had to copy Ecclesiastes 3:1 one hundred times with Mr. Hojo grumbling over my shoulder about having to babysit infants. 

It’s five minutes before the bell and she’s still engaging her mother in conversation; seemingly and blissfully unaware of how little time she has to get to the first period. The second annoyance; the talking. She could make friends with a serial killer. Her big green eyes begged for conversation. A wall could hold her attention for hours. People joked that the only reason she liked me was my complete lack of interest in talking. She thought it a challenge to get me to break my mask and smile. Or retort with some sarcastic remark. She never faltered. Every comeback she would giggle and poke my nose- tell me I was cute. 

I wished her away so many times, until I couldn’t be bothered to make wishes and gave in. Then when they came true, I wanted to find the shooting star I burdened with that wish and tell it I changed my mind. But I’m sure there’s no going back once you call your girlfriend a whore in front of everyone. 

She finally backs away from the car, still with her smile, saying goodbye for the hundredth time. Her mother finally realizes she, herself, is going to be late for work, and speeds away- and had administration been outside, that in itself would have cost her daughter a detention. See, here, you are responsible for the actions of your parents. 

She turns to enter the school, but stops when those green eyes see me. She’s far enough away, I can’t see the way her face shifts when she notices me against Seph’s car. Maybe that’s a good thing. I want her face to contort in anger- like Tifa yesterday. But from the whispers heard throughout the halls of the school, anger isn’t the shape her face takes. And I try to drown out the truth that lingers behind those eyes. 

For seconds we stand at odds with each other before she continues into the school; her head trying to remain up with dedication. I admire her for that. When I finally decide to follow, my head will hang low. 

\---------------

It might shock everyone, but I used to be an overachiever. I would stress over perfecting my assignments till I vomited. My anxiety a crutch that would torture my parents and I into the late hours of the night, until my dad would have enough of my tears and force the pencil out of my hand. A B was a bomb to my self-esteem. If I didn’t end the year with A’s, I would shut down completely. No speaking. No eating. Just my thoughts strangling me from the inside. Until it got to be too much. 

That part of me died a long time ago. 

So it is no surprise to Hojo when I stroll into class a minute after the first bell signaling the beginning of homeroom. I feel the sarcastic remark before it graciously falls from his thin lips. I had him last year for Chemistry- and if my schedule reads correctly, we get to continue our cankerous relationship in Physics Eight period. I’m convinced this was done on purpose- to torture the both of us. 

“Mr. Strife,” he slitters as I saunter into the four-walled, blue washed, classroom, “I guess we’ll be doing the same song and dance as last year.”

I throw him a smirk, “Right on cue.”

“Glad to see somethings don’t change. Should I even bother with a warning or will I be seeing you in detention later?”

“I mean...if you want to see me three times in one day, that’s on you.”

I probably deserve detention for that remark; and if he really cared about this place, he would have sent me straight to Palmer. But he sighs and marks me present in his attendance book. Mr. Hojo, or Dr. Hojo as he would rather us call him, is a true man of science. Stuck in this hellish religious hole for some act against the academic community that was a mystery to us. I want to feel for him, but he’s blatant torture of me during Chemistry last year prevents me from giving him a second thought. I take my rightful seat in the back corner of the room, as he continues to read off the names of the other inmates. 

It’s too early. Too bright. Too hot. The whole situation is not a conducive learning environment. I choose a seat next to the window because I hate myself and want to die of heat exhaustion. No, I look out the glass into the center courtyard filled with bright green trees that sway against a warm wind. The pathways that curve through the mock-park in the center of the school are currently devoid of life- everyone in their rightful classroom. I get comfortable for the next 30 minutes of homeroom- a time usually dedicated to catching up on homework or watching the TV in the corner of the room where the student council reads off the announcements for the day after we pledge allegiance to the flag and pray for our president. I have ten minutes before the black box tells me to stand up, and I think maybe a nap could be in order. Sleep had been fleeting. 

I look at Hojo, who is finishing up his roll call, and slouch in the seat to start my cat nap. However. As he closes the door, a hand slamming against the wood snaps all twenty-five eyes towards the culprit morphing into the room. 

I see the hair first.

And lie to myself that my breath didn’t hitch. 

He walks in and absorbs all the energy in the room. I am captivated by the complete lack of fucks he gives in his appearance. Barely in dress code. His navy blazer unbuttoned, slacks unpressed, and shoes as scuffed and faded as mine. The first two buttons of his white shirt undone and his tie hung half-assed, as if he attempted the task only to give up right before he finished. His hair, this mess of unnatural red. 

Red. Not really like blood.

Darker. Like a perfect cherry. 

But definitely not within code. 

Nothing about him follows the code, but he emerges himself into the scene as if he belongs and no one seems to notice he doesn’t. 

“You’re late, Mr. Sinclair.” Hojo sighs. 

“Yeah. I’m new. I got lost.” He snarks as if this is common knowledge. 

Hojo allows his second sigh of defeat of the day escape; which sounded like I _ don’t get paid enough to care _ dangling under his breath. “Well, I let Mr. Strife off with a warning-”

“Strife!” He sputters out a laugh, “Is that a serious name?”

“Yeah. It is. Problem?” I hiss from the back and suddenly all eyes are on me. The opposite of what I need. 

And they are all looking at me like I have never said two words; with their judging eyebrows and twisted faces. Even Hojo looks particularly horrified by my outburst; and I feel that threat of detention turning into a reality- and I can blame red for the gift. 

However, he just stares at me with the rest of the herd. Except his eyes look like Christmas. And his lips twitch into that same mocking smile as yesterday. 

“My apologies,  _ Mr. Strife _ .”

I hate how smooth my name sounds in his voice. 

I hate that it touched his lips. 

Hojo urges him to take his seat. I tear my eyes towards the window and note to avoid that guy at all costs. Two times in two days was two times too much. 

The class returns to their previous activities, and Hojo slumps into his desks where a stack of papers wait for him. But my eyes betray me and find themselves back to  _ him _ . Submerged in his smugness. Uninhibited the school's stern regulations. And everyone just seems to accept this like it’s normal. Why him?

And why red?

Seriously, if we are being completely honest here: what would possess him to dye his eye bright dark red. A contradiction. Cherry red. No way that didn’t come from a box. He decided on that color.  _ ONLY NATURAL COLORS ALLOWED. _ The handbook screams and that color obviously unnatural. Messy as if he rolled out of bed, ran his fingers through once and called it a day. No shame. 

And then I notice his eyes on me and still with that lopsided smile, as if he’s watched me this whole time staring at him for far too long. 

I look away for a second before I dare to glance at him again, using my own messy bangs as a cover. But he sees directly into me. 

And his eyes are filthy blue. Bold and wild. They drift along my body with a ping of interest, as if curiously trying to peel away all the layers that make up my carefully constructed disguise. Then a snap and we are engulfed in each other's gaze. Staring in open daylight for the world to see. 

That isn’t part of the script.

And I’m not prepared to learn new lines. 

\------

Compared to the other schools on Staten Island, Saint Sebastian’s is tiny in terms of population. Capped off at 360 students, spread amongst four grade levels, and separated into three unequal tracks: honors/AP, Second Honors, and “College Prep.” The administration brags about their selectivity. Only students with exceptional grades in middle school can even consider taking the placement test. Students who excel in athletics get coveted scholarships and grants to pay for the nearly 6,000 a year tuition- more than the local college. And if you have money lining your pockets, you can bypass all of that shit and just slip administration some Benjamins to buy yourself a seat. 

If you really have some pull, you can heavily coerce the school into giving your kid top honors. Maybe even convince them to let your baby slide their way into AP classes. I don’t know. Maybe somehow pay people to take AP tests for your dumb shit kid.

I don’t know. This is all conjecture. Maybe the moody thoughts of a Junior who watched some of the morons who barely passed middle school laughing on top of their honors classes at the rest of us. Maybe I’m tight that all my friends, all three of them, are separated into the other two tracks and I am left in third. Cid and Barret deserve their AP Literature, and AP US History, and AP physics; if they want to torture themselves for an entire year, that’s on them. Seph sits pretty in track two, with most of the other jocks. All three are in sports so all three have scholarships- though Seph doesn't need it. 

I guess they deserve their seats in the school. 

But just them. 

Certainly not me. 

Anyway, the point to this mental rant: this school is small. Too small for how big the building is, and that’s not including the Church where every first Friday of the month the entire school files in for bonus Mass. So it was extremely easy to run into the same people throughout the day. It is also easy to be stuck in the same classes with the same jack-off with red hair. 

Homeroom is separated differently. Not sure how. Don’t really know if I care. But what I do know, is half the kids in that class don’t have the same eight classes as me; so imagine my fucking surprise when  _ Sinclair  _ ends up in Math class with me, and English class after, and definitely U.S History. I get a small reprieve in Spanish- he’s probably taking something fancy like  _ French _ . .

Maybe. 

Not like I really want to dwell on it. 

And of course, every teacher lacks creativity, so they assign seats in alphabetical order- and Sinclair comes before Strife, so I get to stare at the back of his head in Math, so I can feel him steal glances in my direction during English where we are next to each other in an obnoxious U shape. In U.S History, Mr. Turnell decides to be  _ slightly interesting _ and goes in reverse alphabetical order, so I can feel blue eyes burning the back of  _ my head _ for fifty-minutes. As if they were daring me to turn around and confront him.

So by lunch, I am convinced he knows he gets under my skin and wants to fuck with me. 

I have six period lunch- with no one. Flashbacks to middle school, where I ate lunch with my English teacher because I had nowhere else to go, creeps into my head like a reopened wound. I dip into the third floor bathroom at the opposite side of where the juniors and seniors have classes. No one really comes in here- the freshmen and sophomores think it’s haunted, or believe in some other lie the previous upperclassmen told them. Teacher’s also neglect to check bathrooms, so I can sit on the window sill in the handicapped stall and smoke a cigarette half out the window. 

I remember my idea of going almost seven hours without a cigarette, but I file this under another broken promise to myself and quell my anxiety with flymedihyde. 

Why am I even anxious? 

A question that burns in my head as I inhale and exhale carbon monoxide. If I didn’t abandon my therapist, I probably could get a refill of that anxiety medication. 

Or I could steal moms…

No. I made another promise to myself to stop that; and if I keep rescinding on those deals, I’m going to void the main one I made nearly two and a half years ago. 

There’s no reason to be freaking the fuck out. All because some kid,  _ whose first name I don’t even know _ , caught me staring. There’s no law against staring. And it’s his own fault. What’s it called, peacocking? His ostentatious display is on purpose. He wants the attention. 

And here I am, giving in to his silent demands. 

So who's the joke really on? 

The bell sounds off. I dread the walk to gym class back on the first floor. Junior year, we were granted the privilege of choosing between three gym classes: weightlifting, track, or boring regular gym. I chose weightlifting. I tell myself it was Barret who convinced me, but I know I made the decision when a girl said I had nice arm muscles- and my vanity and desire to get laid took over my brain. So now, I am being spotted by a deranged man who screams such motivational sentences like:

  
“Go faster you ass!”

And

“Stop being a pussy!”

“I’m going to kick your ass, Wallace,” I shout as I bench press 135 pounds of weight. 

“You can’t do that, Strife,” he mocks, “That’s called a hate crime, buddy.”

“Where’s the teacher!” I try to keep my voice low, and not devolve into a screeching mess as my muscles scream at me for my betrayal.

“Hey!” he gets low, staring into my eyes like a murderer, “I’m your teacher now!”

Our actual teacher, the football coach, gives us a thumbs up from across the gym when Barett finally takes the barbell from me. I lay on the bench, sweating and cursing all my life choices. 

“Stop being a baby,” he kicks me in my shin, “we’ll do legs tomorrow. Can’t being hanging around a lopsided fuck.”

“We aren’t friends anymore.” I say, breathlessly, and he laughs. 

“Hey, Cloud, your vagina is showing. ”

For some reason I instinctively close my legs, and he’s laughing even harder at me, and probably thinking about texting Cid later about how easy I am to trick. “Fuck you.”

The torture complete, the bell rings. Which leaves exactly three minutes to change out of the drenched gym clothes and charge up a flight of stairs to Physics. The gym teacher is supposed to end class three minutes before the bell to give us enough time, but was distracted by the cluster of football players talking his ear off like they were a bunch of buddies. He will write them all notes for why they’re late for their next class. 

I’m not lucky. He’s had it in for me after I quit the team at the beginning of last year.

So with my arms feeling like they lack any bone density, I quickly walk up the stairs, trying to hide the fact my lungs burn as if I lit a cigarette and inhaled it through my nose. Old Spice deodorant will be the saving grace for whoever I get stuck next to in Physics. 

In fact…

I had completely forgotten about the red-head until I saw him approaching the classroom from the opposite side of the hall. And I remember the name order. And looked at the time- the late bell had rung. The last two to enter the class. 

“Fuck,” I groan.

His blues eyes look shocked for once. “What?” He snarls. 

“Just wait.”

I walk into Hojo’s Physics classroom,  _ Sinclair _ on my heels. Hojo stands at the front of the classroom, his clipboard in hand with the table seating on display. He curls his lips into a scowl upon seeing me...late...again. 

“Mr. Strife, that’s the last str-”

“I had gym!” I argue. 

“Your teacher lets you leave three minutes early- plenty of time to get here before the late bell.” 

“It’s Coach Kunkle, you know how he is.” I huff. 

Hojo narrows his eyes through his glasses. I see the wheels turning in his brain. 

“He thinks science is for nerds,” I shrug, “I told him I needed to get to class. He didn’t care.”

“I suppose he didn’t give you a note either.” His voice lacks empathy; but I know his feelings towards Kunkle, and any of the coaches. And I knew I could use the unspoken rivalry between the Science departments and Athletic Department to my advantage- this time at least.

Hojo looks behind me, “I suppose you also came from gym?”

“Yup, 100 percent.” The red-head lies through perfectly white teeth.

“Fine. I’ll have a word with your gym teacher.” He won’t, he’s terrified of him, “In the meantime, since you two are late- again- you get to be partners for the rest of the year.” He points to the back of the class, at the lab table closest to the window currently empty. “Enjoy.”

At this point, I just accept the cruel cosmic joke.

I grab the seat that is closer to the window, the sun's rays beating down on my hair without much reprieve, but I get to enjoy the view of the courtyard filling up with seniors whose classes have ended early- and try to live vicariously through them like a caged bird dreaming of freedom. 

Hojo begins his lecture as he did last year. “This is Physics,” he slams the thirty pound textbook on his desk, “This will not be easy. I will not dumb down the material because the school’s evaluation of you suggests an inability to grasp complex material. If they felt you were unable to complete this course, they should have offered a less demanding science- like Geology.” He purses his lips as if the word was poison on his tongue. “If you can not keep up, you will fail. That is a consequence of your behavior, not a reflection of my teaching.” 

Elena Bush slowly raises her hand, making the same exact mistake she made last year and which causes the same response-

“No questions!” He snaps and she lowers her hand. “Your text books are on the table- as is your lab log. You must have your own notebook for Physics. You will need these materials every day. If you fail to bring these to class, you will be marked absent and will face the consequences. Understood?”

He doesn’t wait for the resounding groan of approval. He turns to the board and begins his long winded lecture- and my mind successfully turns off. 

I feel the red-head shift in his seat. “You took my advice on the soap, eh?” he whispers, “Guess it’s my lucky day.”

“I told you to stop smelling people,” I retort, keeping my voice low and my eyes glued to the closed window. 

He snickers. “So, you going to ask me my name or what?”

The question catches me off guard- not a single teacher called us by our first names. They exclusively call us by our family name, like a reminder, that we are an extension of them. Our failure is theirs. “What makes you think I want to know your name?”

“Because you can’t seem to stop looking at me, Cloud.”

I snap my head towards him. He has his pen between two thin lips that are curled into a smile. He flashes his amused blue eyes at me- and I realize they are brighter than mine. More pure. Ice blue, no specks of green like a blemish. And I almost forget that my first name just left his mouth. 

“How do you know my name?”

“Oh,” he moves the pen from his mouth, “I asked my buddy who the blond with the bitch face and shitty attitude is.”

Then it hits me like a shovel to the face. He isn’t the only Sinclair walking around the school. A taller, buffer, and tanner one, who places defensive tight-end on the football team, sits in second track with Seph. And if he is associated with that guy, then he’s associated with the Borough President’s son. 

“Is your buddy, Rude?” I mumble this with an air of sarcasm, but I’m hoping he’s the one spoken to. 

“Close, Rufus.”

Bingo. 

I’ll lament about Rufus Shinra later. The...red-headed guy throws me an impatient look. I could pinch my lips, pretend I’m engrossed in Hojo’s lecture, and not give in to those silent demands. But, I feel sweat beading along my forward, not from the sun beating down on me, and my chest tightens. Suddenly, I am uneasy that he has more knowledge of me than I do of him. 

“Fine,” I huff and feel my chest release, “What’s your name?

“Heh,” he laughs, “It’s Reno.”

The laugh that echoes through the classroom flies from my throat before I have a chance to catch it. And I am both parts tickled and mortified at my outburst, that my cheeks immediately warm from embarrassment- and I see  _ Reno _ put his fist to his mouth to stop himself from following my lead. 

Hojo slams the chalk on board. “Mr. Strife, if I have to say your name  _ one more time _ , you’re in detention for the rest of the week. 

I sit up straight. “Ja, mein fuhrer.”

Hojo never looks at me, but I imagine he grits his teeth, and continues to write on the board. 

I quickly open my book and pretend I am copying the notes on the board. I glue my eyes to the table, but I find myself unable to control my mouth. “Sick name,” I mumble sarcastically, “Is Last Vegas your brother?”

I feel him lean into the table as if mimicking my actions. “Heh, says the guy named after floating water vapor.”

I bit my lip to stifle the next laugh that threatens my freedom. 

And I know he’s looking at me, and in my peripheral I see him clenching his jaw while the tiniest sound escapes that I can’t describe-

A giggle too light.

A grunt too rough. 

Something I feel in my throat. 

But I have to swallow that feeling away. 


	6. Riding in Cars with Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud's about to find out that some rumors are true.  
> But which ones?

New York weather is a fickle bitch. 

At 6:51 am, when I exit the house, a cool 68 degree breeze runs through my hair like a tease. I know once the midday sun hangs overhead, it will be a crushing 80 degrees with 85% percent humidity and I’ll be trapped in this horrible uniform to cook from the inside. And there’s no real air conditioning- at least not enough to cool down the stone walls of the school- so we’re just suffocating in our coffins for seven hours. 

I slouch in Seph’s car and enjoy the artificial cool hair smack my face for as long as possible. It’s Friday, I almost survived the first week of school without a detention. I came close yesterday, in U.S History, when I had to remind the teacher that Columbus didn’t _actually_ discover the United States. He discovered the Bahamas where he proceeded to rape and pillage the indigenous people there and now we get to celebrate his achievement of being an absolute, fucking, terrible human being. 

And actually, if it wasn't for Reno laughing and agreeing with me- starting a domino effect where suddenly, all twenty-five previously disinterested students began debating the validity of celebrating Columbus day- I probably would have been promptly sent to Palmer and given detention. 

Maybe he was returning the favor for not ratting him out to Hojo about not being in gym?

Are we supposed to be friends now?

“You’re oddly quiet today.” Seph says blankly as he stops at a red light and checks himself out in the rearview mirror. I can’t tell if he’s surprised, or relieved, that I have spared him my morning rant. 

I offer a grunt of acknowledgement. “Do you want me to go over how stupid today’s schedule is? We have half hour classes, an hour of Mass, and then are done by 12:00?”

“I should have kept my mouth shut,” he grumbles, “Who complains about getting out early? Shit, Cloud.”

I curl my lips in to stop the complaints. The light turns green and Seph slams on the gas as if trying to end his torture as quick as possible. 

Or kill me. 

He’s mumbling something again, under his breath. And I know he’s already planning on ditching me after Church. I pretend that this doesn’t hurt. Like my chest doesn’t tighten everytime he disappears, or flat out avoids me in the halls. I brush it off like all the times he makes jokes at my expense in front of his friends. I’ll grit my teeth and smile like I do when calls me a faggot- and I’ll especially pretend that word doesn’t cut me like a knife every time it casually falls from his mouth. I _especially_ have to pretend that I don’t care. 

I don’t know why I am holding on to this friendship thread so tightly, it makes my metaphorical fingers bleed. I’m not sure if it's the length of our friendship that keeps me answering his phone calls when he needs to escape his house. Or if maybe, if I hang on to him like a shadow, some of the light that surrounds him- the acceptance, the popularity- will fall on me and I’ll be normal. 

But I’m starting to wonder if that light is real. Or if fake like everything else about Sephiroth. 

Everyone acts like they love Seph. Star of the baseball team, he is the apple of his coach's eye. He gets away with murder in academics. I don’t remember him doing a lick of homework in middle school- usually because _I was the one_ doing it for him- so it’s a joke that he is even settled in track two. Everytime there’s a tour, Rufus Shinra and Sephiroth Stern are called to flash their politicians' smiles and talk up the school like paid actors. Girls flock to him like moths to flame. That light is intoxicating to them. And I can’t lie, that I am drawn to it, to him, in similar ways. 

But I know him too well, now. And underneath that plastic smile, and twinkling eyes, is something vicious. It flashed when we were five and he moved into our neighborhood. My mother invited him to play at our house while the movers were setting up. He immediately broke my Undertaker action figure, the commandeered all my dinosaur toys- telling me they were his now- and then locked me in my closet when I cried. Then when my mother finally came to check on me, he pretended that I fell and comforted me. Somehow, he even convinced his mother to replace the Undertaker action figure, even though he told everyone I had accidentally broken it. And even with that child-voice, squeaky clean, he was a master manipulator. I think he even convinced me for years that it was my fault. Everything was my fault. 

The broken undertaker. 

Then my broken arm at twelve.

My broken nose at thirteen.

And what happened with Aerith on my birthday. 

All of it. My fault. 

I’m not aware I’m clenching my teeth as hard as I am until the splitting headache appears. I unclench my jaw and try to ignore my stomach dropping. We pull into the parking lot and he kills the engine. I think for a minute of bailing on school, but only a minute. He’s right, who the fuck complains about a half day? The whole day will be a joke. And I need something to laugh at. 

“Yo,” he starts, before opening the door, “Angeal’s parents are out of town this weekend. He’s throwing a huge party. I mean, _fucking huge_ , bro.” His eyes get this weird look when he talks about parties. They narrow and almost sinister. And I’m not sure if it’s the prospect of pussy or drugs that get him all wild up. “He even told me to invite Tifa and her low-life friends.”

“He only wants Tifa there because of her tits. And her friends because they have better drugs,” I retort, but that doesn’t phase him.

“Fucking, so what? It’s going to be fucking crazy. It’s tomorrow night, so don’t be a f-”

“We can’t go tomorrow,” I quickly respond.

“Why the hell not?” 

I stare at him for a minute- trying to see if those gears in his head will work it out on their own. But he’s just staring back; his expression now curved in anger. “It’s the 11th….Cid’s dad’s memorial. He’s probably not going to want to go to one of Angeal’s raves. And neither is Tifa, or her low-life friends.”

“Cid’s dad’s what?” He asks, completely confused. 

“Jesus Christ, how are you allowed in track two? Cid’s dad’s died on 9/11. Every year they have a memorial for him and _we as his friends_ go to support him.” Like we’ve done for the last two years. Sephiroth knows this. We’ve had this sorted out for a week already; he’ll pick up me, Barret, and Tifa and head to 7/11 first to get Cid all his favorite junk food. Then we pull up to their house, show face to the slew of grieving Highwinds. Then once Cid starts fighting with his uncle, we take him to Vincent Valentine’s to smoke weed and play _Halo_. We’ve been doing this since 2002. 

“Right, but, that shits in the morning,” he shrugs, “Like, he’s going to cry all day about it?”

I’m not sure if I’m even surprised we are having this conversation. But I know we don’t have time for me to dissect everything wrong with his question. So I try to move it along. “Bro, you’re coming right?” 

And he looks away. Out the front window. I see him pondering his next words carefully. And for some reason, maybe the way his eyes find every other corner to look at except me, or the way his lips fall to a frown, but I know he’s lying. “Yeah, yeah I’ll _try_ to be there.”

“Cool,” I say sarcastically, “Great convo. Love our early morning talks.” I get out of the car, slamming the door behind me, so he knows I’m pissed. And maybe I hope he cares for once that his actions, and words, have cut me in some way. And maybe he’ll apologize, and even better see the error of his ways, and try to be a good friend for once. 

I don’t know why I continue to expect the best, when I hear him yell after me “Stop being a…” and then that word. Again. 

  
  
  


Cid’s out today. He avoids school on the 11th, I noticed. Or anything surrounding it; and it’s probably for the best because anytime someone brings up his father died that day, it usually results in him adding a hole to the drywall, or cutting his hand on the locker from slamming it shut. He hates how fake people treat him. It’s the forced pity. The shared trauma. The “I know how you feel” that people whisper pathetically to him. But they don’t. Not really, at least. We can say we understand because it was a national tragedy; something we felt from glass windows. Outsider’s looking in. Cid feels it from the inside. 

So I’m happy he isn’t here. Especially when I close my locker and Rufus Shinra is suddenly in my space, with a bored look on his face and an envelope in his hand. 

“I’m assuming you’ll be seeing Highwind at some point?” He questions with a drawl, like there’s a million better things to do than talk to me.

“Why?” I ask, which has two meanings. Why does he want to know if I’m seeing my best friend? And why is even talking to me? We don’t like each other and we never have. We act cordial in public because there’s no real reason for either one of us to have an issue. I can say it’s because he represents everything I hate about the Staten Island Elite. He can say I’m a crybaby- or moody bitch. But never, or as far as I know, have any actions been taken to warrant the dirty looks. And yet, here he stands. Too close to me, with his perfectly pressed uniform, and slicked back blonde hair, leaning against someone’s locker. 

He hands me the white envelope. “A donation, in his father’s name, to the Firefighter’s Association.”

“Police officer,” I correct, and sincerely hope he’s just an idiot and not his father’s assistant.

“What?” He doesn’t even look surprised. 

“His dad was a police officer.”

“Whatever,” he shrugs, “Make sure to tell his mom it’s a donation from the Borough President himself.”

Amazing. The man couldn’t even be bothered to do it himself. Sent his son to do it, who now has decided I should be his errand boy; which begged the question, where his _actual_ errand boy was hiding. “What? Tseng home washing your tights or something?”

“Huh?” He shoots me an annoyed expression. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, forget it.” I throw the envelope in my locker and slam it shut again, louder. .“Anything else I can do for you?”

“Actually,” his lips curl into a smirk, and now I’m equal parts confused and annoyed, “Did you hear about Angeal’s party?”

“Yes,” I respond curtly, “The invitation has been extended to the likes of me.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot, you’re Sephiroth’s butt buddy so you would get invited.”

“Aw, do I hear a little jealousy in your tone? Have I not been giving you enough attention?” I know what he is getting at. I know why he wants to know if I heard about this party, or any party. So I try to throw him off with some gay humor, which he recoils at, but doesn’t move. 

“You’re a freak,” he retorts, and shifts uncomfortably before returning to his chill pose against the metal locker. “I heard a rumor that the former D.A.R.E ambassador, Cloud Strife, has the hook up for xanax.”

I curl my lips into a frown, unintentionally, which I know garners the response that Rufus desires. And I hate myself for playing into his hand easily, and curse my face for giving away my emotions. Rufus continues to lean there, now with an amused smile. 

“Hm,” I pause dramatically, “Sounds like a bullshit rumor to me.”

“That’s the thing about rumors, Strife, sometimes they turn out to be true.” I cringe at his tone. It sounds like a threat. Suddenly, I forget we are talking about drugs and fall back to another rumor. 

But I force a smile past clenched teeth, “Like the rumor that the Borough President’s son sells his mom’s percs to freshmen?”

He laughs. A hearty, almost deranged, laugh. That bounces off the walls of the nearly empty hallway, only momentarily capturing the attention of some unsuspecting girls at the other end of the hall. He lifts himself off the locker, “Grow up, Cloud. I sell E now.” He says this like he’s proud, and maybe I’m a little impressed that this sixteen-year-old fucker got an ecstasy hook up. “I could get you some- double the price of course since I absolutely fucking hate you. Just. So much.” 

I return the laugh and place my hands over my heart. “Aw, how sweet. I hope you fucking die in a fire, bro.”

We walk in opposite directions; I can still feel his mocking smile behind me as mine falls to a frown. I’m not surprised he knows about me- my nefarious side-gig that makes me one of the worst kind of people to walk Staten Island- but I am surprised, shaken, and disturbed Rufus approached me so cavalier in the middle of school. And I can’t shake this feeling that he’s up to something. And that maybe our years of tense and silent resentment will finally boil over.

  
  
  
  


I toil my encounter with Rufus over and over which distracts me for the entire academic portion of the day- which, as expected was a joke since it is impossible to get anything of worth done in thirty minutes, so most teachers had us watch the T.V. I zoned out. Or tried to. Reno was especially insufferable with no teacher paying attention. Constantly trying to draw conversation out. Cracking jokes about what’s on the T.V. I admit, at times I rewarded his attempts with a tense smile. In physics, there was a sub, so it was a free-for-all. I thought he would use these free thirty minutes before Church to torture me. But he, instead, hung out by Elena Bush and Cissnei Bando. He leaned over their lab table, with a playful smile on his face, occasionally fooling around with Elena’s tie while the girls giggled. So I looked out the window for thirty minutes, pretending it didn’t bother me. Wondering why it did. Knowing the answer. 

I considered confessing to the priest the drug shit. Maybe I would be forgiven and protected from whatever Rufus had planned. If anything. But I remember, if God does exist, he already abandoned me a long time ago. No amount of “Our Father’s” could fix that relationship. So I spent my confession lying to the Priest about my sins- I used the Lord’s name in vain- and was given a prescription of 3 Hail Marys to be cured of my transgressions. Then spent the rest of the time watching Jesus judge me from the cross expecting to burst into flames at any moment. And wouldn’t that just solve all my current problems. 

When we are released, Barett and I walk together back to the school. The bus I need to take to get home is in the direction of the football field where Barret has practice. 

“My ma said she’ll pick you up around six for the game,” Barret says as we stop in front of the field where a few of his football friends, including Rude are already heading towards the lockers. “You sure you want to come? We going against Sea. They’re a buncha pussies so it’ll probably be lame.”

I shrug, “Got nothing going on. Plus, I like football. Is it okay if Tifa comes? She’s crashing at my house tonight so we can go to Cid’s together tomorrow.”

He flashes me a sinister smile, “Yeah of course, man. ‘Crashing at your place’ huh?”

“Stop,” I grumble, “We’re just friends.”

“Sure,” he says dramatically, “Speaking of Cid...what time is Sephiroth scooping yous two tomorrow?”

I sigh and Barret rolls his eyes. “I’m not sure if we can count on him,” I say, “I’ll have to ask my mom or dad for a lift. I’ll let you know what goes on.”

“Aight, homie, I’ll catch you later.” We exchange the typical Staten Island bro handshake high-five and he leaves. For a minute, I regret quitting football. I always liked the sport; the one thing my dad and I have in common. He played all four years of high school, before a torn ACL took him out of the game permanently. I think he always hoped he would have a son as proficient in sports as him. He got a son who never made it off the bench. And maybe I didn’t give it enough of a shot, sure, but there’s only so many times I can be slammed on my ass during practice and ride the bench during the games. And once dad stopped showing up, it didn’t seem like the pain was worth it in the end. 

I start for home, texting Tifa to remember which lie she told her parents about her whereabouts tonight and what time Barret’s mom would be grabbing us. As far as the Lockheart’s know, Tifa is at Jesse’s house for a girls sleep over with Yuffie Kisagari. I'm so engrossed in our text exchange that I don’t immediately hear the car fly past me until the screeching of the breaks grabs my attention. I look up in time to see a black BMW reverse erratically and stop next to me. The window rolls down, the sounds of Metallica’s album _Ride the Lightning_ hit my ears, and I’m staring into Reno’s blue eyes which sparkle like the carribean sea. 

“Need a ride, pretty boy?” he shouts over the music. 

“How the fuck are you allowed to drive?” I shout back- because all these juniors being allowed to drive is getting real fucking ridiculous. I get Seph, his birthday being December 1987, meaning he was able to get driver’s ed a semester earlier than the rest of us. But technically not even he is allowed to drive without a license driver in the car. He just gets away with it because of the connections his father has. But not this clown. 

“What?” He looks genuinely confused, “I’m sixteen, I have my license. Don’t you?”

I feel like he’s mocking me. “In the state of New York, you can’t drive with a license until you're _seventeen_.”

“Well the state of Tennessee disagrees with you,” he laughs. 

Like a lightbulb goes off in my head. I noticed this drawl in his accent- subtle, not noticeable unless you were paying deep attention to his words. So I’m off a few states with Texas. Even so. “You still can’t drive in New York even if your license says Tennessee, dumbass.”

“Wow,” he feigns being offended, “I wasn’t aware you were so well versed in New York driving laws. _My bad_. So are you getting in the car or not?”

“Why?” I question. 

“Why what?” 

“Why are you offering me a ride?”

He looks around confused, “Shit, the stereotypes about this place are right.”

“You have no idea,” I grumble, “but which one in particular?”

“That all New Yorkers are assholes.” 

Reno’s laughs but I don't share his amusement. My encounter with Rufus still fresh on my mind- and I know he’s at least associated with Shinra- so I’m not sure if I can trust his seemingly well intentions. Also, the stereotype about New Yorkers being extremely untrusting is correct. But I guess something about Southern hospitality prevents him from driving away and leaving my rude ass on the corner to sweat while I wait for the bus. Instead he sits in the car, tapping the door with his fingers, waiting for me to reconsider his offer. 

“I’m fine,” I lie, “I’ll just take the bus.”

“Are you sure?” he sing songs, “it’s pretty hot.”

“My mother taught me not to get into cars with strange boys.”

Another cackle, “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who listens to his mother.”

I can hear the click of doors unlocking. His arm hangs out of the car, like a beckoning finger, and he looks with me with that sick smile plastered on his face as if he already knows I’m going to relent. But I make him wait until James Hetfield finishes screaming _for whom the bell tolls_ before I give in. He’s right. It’s hot. 

I get in the car and welcome the relief of the air conditioner. The smell of leather and stale cigarettes fill my nose- and I wonder how someone could drive such a nice car and screw it over by smoking. Not even Sephiroth smokes in his car. 

“See, was that so hard?” Reno mocks. 

“Yes, terrible. Instant regret.” I huff and I see his eyes narrow from my peripheral, and I try to keep focus on the road ahead. My bus drives past, so now I am really at his mercy. 

“So, do you always put on this bitchy guy act, or am I just special?”

“Who says it's an act?” I arch an eyebrow at him while this strange rave of guilt washes over me. He doesn’t look hurt by my abrupt responses. In fact, he looks more ticked off that I’m not kissing his ass. 

“I’m starting to regret offering you a ride-” 

“Told you.”

“But my mother did tell me to always help the less fortunate,” he says scathingly like it’s some kind of insult. He’s probably referencing the fact that I look constantly like I rolled out of bed with my messy blond hair and unflattering uniform. Or I’m not fancy enough to have a car I can’t drive legally. Or he’s implying I don’t have the money to live above the law. 

I mock right back, “Oh, you don’t look like the kind of guy who listens to his mother.” I exaggerate his voice, poorly, but to knock the point over his thick-head. 

“If I wanted my come back,” he turns forward in his seat, “I’d wipe it off your face later.”

It takes five seconds. 

I realize I’m holding my breath. And that our eyes have met. My chest flips. Or was that my stomach shooting into my throat, robbing me of a voice. Or words. He has this smile on his chiseled face. Half smirk. Half frown. Something sardonic. 

“What,” I manage to stammer out.

He looks at me with those amused bright eyes. “What?”

I question my beating heart and drown the thoughts that attempt to surface. I pull my eyes from his- cursing everything about my face that shows him what I’m feeling. And I’m as exposed as I would be if I was sitting there naked. I look out the front windshield and swallow hard. “You driving or what?”

“Kinda need your address.” His tone softens which shocks me as much as the previous comment. And I actually had forgotten the original reason I was currently in his car. I relay him my address like a drone and he erupts in a chorus of laughter that has my head swimming. I’m drowning. “You’re kidding,” he pauses his laughter.

“What now?”

“Guess who's your backyard neighbor?”

Of.freaking.course. Because somehow this is a joke. A joke from the universe. He would be in my class, and my neighbor, and I would be in his car playing into the hands of whatever God is seeing to my torture. Because this is torture. I can’t explain why; I can’t tell myself why. I’ll just lament Reno’s existence in my life.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” I groan and slouch in the passenger seat. 

“So, you’re the sad boy playing Emo music all month long.”

I shake my head pathetically, “Korn and Slipknot aren’t EMO.”

“Yeah, but My Chemical Romance and The Used are.”

I want to compliment his knowledge of music. I also want to stab myself in the head for even considering the thought. “Bro, are you taking me home or did you pick me up to fuck with me?”

Reno’s laugh is toxic. And it stings when it reaches my ears. He knows he has successfully gotten under my skin like a plague; and all my attempts to bite back have been weakened by one, throwaway, comment. He pulls away from the curb aggressively, and I flounder in the seat like a complete fool. 

“Seatbelt, pretty boy, safety first.” He mocks.

I straighten myself up and aggressively pull the seat belt over me- silently screaming every time it resists. I decide to just keep my eyes on the window- settle in comfortably for the twenty minute drive. _Fade to Black_ blasting through the speakers which proves to be a welcomed relief from the usual Hip-Hop and R&B I am subjected to in Sephiroth’s car. And I do consider talking music with Reno- he seems to share similar tastes- but I find myself unable to unlock my jaw. I feel like I’m still underwater, with liquid in my lungs. And even with the artificial air canceling out the suffocating humidity from outside, I feel like I am trapped in some coffin of my own creation. Reno seems undisturbed. He doesn’t drive fast, I notice. He takes the scenic route- which I excuse away with the fact he seems to have just moved to the island. He drives like he’s comfortable in his own skin. Leaning back, tapping the steering wheel to the drums occasionally, and softly singing along with the band. And his voice sounds rough when it reaches my ears. Rough and welcomed. And I feel myself push my body against the door- like I’m trying to run away. 

But I do want to talk. 

Say something other than some sarcastic, bitchy, remark to make him mad. 

I want to ask him how he got into Metallica? Was it his father? Like mine. 

Or was this something he discovered as a form of rebellion. Metal isn’t exactly what Catholic school boys gravitate to; lack of exposure. But Cid’s into Punk because it fits with his aesthetic. And Barret likes Rap because of his parents. Tifa got into Nu-Metal and Emo because of me. We all have our avenues that shape our likes and dislikes. And I find myself curious. I want to know the paths he took. 

But I staple my lips shut. And sit there awkwardly. He’s not offering an opening either.

He pulls in front of my house and whistles. “Damn, what do your parents do for a livin’?”

“Why are you impressed? Your house is bigger.” I comment, not immediately leaving the car. 

He turns off the engine and opens his window. “Yo, I left my lighter in my other pants, do you have one?” He’s fishing for his cigarettes in his pants, which should be crushed, and lifts himself up. And I am really trying to look at anything but him. 

I dig into my pocket and grab my own cigarettes. “I’m assuming I can smoke here too?” I toss him the lighter which he catches with one hand. 

“Depends, what are you smoking?” I flash him the box of menthols and he laughs. “Seriously? You know your smoking straight-up glass.”

He lights his cigarette, a Marlboro Red, and hands me back the lighter- and I duley note that he isn’t one of the scumbags who steals your lighter. “Says the guy smoking reds. Doesn’t that shit hurt your throat?”

He exhales the black smoke out his window, as if that helps with the smell. “I don’t want my cancer to lie to me.”

I snort unattractively which elicits a smile from the red-head. I inhale my own tar and poison, which ironically seems to free my lungs from the water that crushes them. “That’s a terrible sentiment. Dark even.”

He shrugs, “Does it count as suicide if you smoke yourself to death?”

I cringe inwardly at the statement. “Maybe that’s a loophole?”

Reno's smile is small, bitter looking, and contradicts the wilted expression in his eyes. I want to change the subject as I almost unconsciously pull the sleeves of my blazer down. Not like he could see them through the layers of fabric- one of the only good things about this uniform. 

“Why did you offer me a ride?” I press. 

He shoots me a confused look and laughs. “Shit, what’s your deal? You think everyone's out to get you or somethin’?”

“I know your friends,” I continue forcefully, “They wouldn’t really like you hanging out with me.”

Reno thinks for a minute, still smirking at me as he takes another drag of his cigarette. “I do a lot of things my ‘friends’” he does air quotes, “wouldn’t like.”

“So...you just drove me home out of the goodness in your heart?” I say sarcastically. 

“Is it…” he waves his cigarette around my face, “a blonde thing or you just dumb?”

I curl my lips in and narrow my eyes at him. He’s flat out laughing in my face, occasionally blowing smoke out the window. “What...do you mean?” And I hate answering his question with another question- and I wonder why I didn’t even bother addressing the fact he called me dumb to my face. 

“You got this, cutey. I think you can figure it out.” 

I think back to the first day. When I bumped into him and he scanned my entire form- how I was embarrassed because of how I looked and not concerned with the fact that he was clearly checking me out. I wasn’t concerned. Because I’ve been doing the same thing the whole time. And he catches me every time because _he’s always looking_. Looking and waiting. For our eyes to meet like no one else is in the room. And I remember the way he says my name- his accent curving over every word as if relaxed enough that he can let a piece of his past escape- and I think about how he very rarely says my actual name. Instead goes with a nickname. A terrible, condescending nickname. Or maybe not...condescending. 

“Are you….hitting on me?” I hate how dumb my voice sounds. How it’s a mix of a trashy Staten Island accent, with an upWArd inflection, while being meek and fearful of the answer. 

“Oh, you’ll know when I’m hitting on you, pretty boy.” I swear he winked. 

“See, when you say shit like that, it makes me think you’re hitting on me!” I immediately put the cigarette in my mouth to stop myself from saying anything else. 

He flicks his out the window, without missing a beat, “What if I am?”

Internal.

Screaming. 

He doesn’t look the bit phased by what he’s said, but his smile is gone. 

And I don’t have an answer. Because I never expected the question. 

My heart betrays me by beating as fast as when I have a panic attack.

Or maybe this is a panic attack. 

The smoke in my lungs feels heavy; like I can feel it eating away at the tissue. 

Now the car swelters with thick heat and humidity. And my mouth is dry. 

And I know how I look. I feel very aware of how I keep opening and closing my mouth like a guppy. And I know my left eye twitches slightly- enough that I can feel it but hopefully Reno can’t see it. And I remember how I got in trouble in the third grade by Sister Francis because I wear my emotions on my face and how much of a burden that was for her- to constantly see everything I felt flash across my face. 

Now it’s getting weird. I have to say something. I think about when I played one of the Greasers in _Grease_ in seventh grade, because the drama teacher thought I wasn’t confident enough to play Danny Zuko or Kinikie. So I try to relax my shoulders, and pretend for once that I am cooler than I actually am, and tear my eyes from the boy in front of me who’s waiting patiently for a response. 

“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree,” I mutter with as much conviction as I can muster up. And now I understand why I never get the lead in the play. 

“You sure about that?” 

The sadness in his voice cuts right through me. 

And I wonder if he’s sad because I shot him down like a hammer. 

Or sad that he revealed a part of himself he can’t and I rejected him. 

_Some rumors are true._

I toss the cigarette out the window, not even sure if I smoked it all. But I need to get out of this coffin before I break my teeth from grinding them. So, I leave the car without saying another word, slamming the door behind me and heading to my house.

Reno leans over the passenger side to shout out the window. “Hey! It’s appropriate to say thank you after someone drives you home, asshole!”

And I am not sure why I decide to do this. But I turn around to look at him. And his eyes are furious blue. Dark and angry. And his thin lips are pinched shut. I allow the acknowledgment of how attractive he looks when angry jog through my brain; but know he looks better when that sharp mouth of his is curved into a smile. I know I’m being torn into two directions. And I know I can’t keep this up forever, or I’m going to tear myself open. 

I notice he softens his eyes when he sees me looking. And I’m not as focused on my own face to recognize how I look. But I know the thought of him no longer speaking to me suddenly feels heavy. And I don’t want to carry that weight. 

“Thanks for the ride,” I pause for a minute then shrug, “handsome fella.”

And like I suspected.

Reno’s way prettier when he smiles.


	7. Eight Forty Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the three year anniversary of 9/11.  
> Cloud recalls the events from two years prior.  
> And the gang tries to cheer up Cid.

Chapter Seven: Eight Forty Six

We piled into my father’s car- a white 2004 Infiniti he keeps tempting me with as a reward if I pass Driver’s Ed- Tifa and Barret in the back, and me in the front. He allows us to put on whatever music we want, which he regrets when I put on  _ Toxicity  _ by System of a Down, and spends the fifteen minute drive to 7/11 trying to talk over the music. Corny dad joke, after corny dad joke. Observations about our chosen attire. My outfit- a black unbuttoned button down with the sleeves rolled up and the  _ Slipknot _ logo on the back over a plain black shirt and ripped black jeans (there’s a pattern)- sparked a passive aggressive comment from my father. 

“That’s not really funeral attire,” he mused, “why all the bracelets?”

I fiddle with my  _ wrist accessories  _ which took the shapes of buckles with spikes on them. “They’re cuffs,” I correct, “and it isn’t a funeral. It’s a memorial and they already had it. We’re just going there to say hi and help Cid. Besides, it’s not as bad as what Tifa is wearing!”

“Hey!” She shrieks from the back seat of the car, “What’s wrong with my outfit?!”

“Look at yourself!” I turn around; Tifa glares at me through her red contacts, which match her blushing cheeks. I’m right, she’s adorning a purple and plaid skirt from Hot Topic that looks like a uniform, except she’s accessorizing with fishnet tights and combat boots. She’s wearing a matching purple tank top with enough necklaces to choke herself with at least 5 times. “Why do you look like Gerard Way did your eye makeup?”

“Yo,” Barret chimes in, dressed in a simple black shirt with gold cross around his neck, and jeans that are completely put together. “You both look horrible. Shut up.” 

“See,” my dad agrees, “at least Barret knows how to dress.” 

“Thank you...uh...Mr. Strife.”

“Barret, I’ve told you, Mr. Strife is my dad, and I hate him,” he chuckles, “It’s  _ Bastian _ .”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Barret forces a smile through his teeth, “Yeah, sorry, uh. Bastian.”

My dad seems pleased with himself.  _ Bastian _ Strife, who I assume hates his father because he decided to name his son fucking  _ Bastian _ , sits proudly in the drivers side of the car, himself dressed in his business casual wear to run errands. He mentioned a stop to Home Depot to pick up supplies, something about rebuilding the fence that is meant to separate our backyard from the  _ Sinclairs _ . Apparently the father complained about the state of disarray, my dad retells as he grips the steering wheel tightly. 

“Why don’t you hire someone to do that?” I question.

“No, I want him to look me in the eye as I take down the fence and rebuild it. I want him to know that  _ I can build a fence.”  _ He grumbles, his green eyes aflamed with this uncharacteristic rage right as  _ Chop Suey _ starts blasting through the speakers. My father doesn’t get angry- unless it’s directed at my mother and usually it’s warranted- but with people in the neighborhood he is charming. Smiles all around. Waters his own grass and smiles at the old lady- who we are 99 percent sure is connected to the Gambino family- as she walks down the street. He stops joggers to discuss the weather. “Looks like rain today,” he sings every Saturday. Even if it doesn’t look like rain. He said it today, as Tifa snuck around the back and through the front door to give the illusion she didn’t spend the night in my bed. Blissfully ignorant. 

But whoever Reno’s dad is, really got to him. He slammed the door last night when he came home, freaking out both Tifa and I hiding downstairs, and he stomped through the house grumbling about manners and entitled assholes. 

He pulls into the 7/11 on the corner of New Dorp Lane and Hylan Boulevard. Outside, a slew of Tifa’s friends hang out playing hacky sack while one of the rotating crack heads screams obscenities at the teenagers. My dad insists on waiting for us even though we assured him we could easily make the thirteen minute walk from the convenience store to Cid’s house. However, he is uncomfortable, exchanging looks between the black-clad teenagers and drug addicts, not entirely sure which he should worry about. 

Tifa skips towards the three boys - Biggs, Wedge, and Vincent, who we will be seeing later once we spring Cid from his mourning- while Barret and I enter the fluorescent lit store to acquire enough snacks to fill the void. Barret heads to the chip aisle to scour the shelves for the right chips. I immediately find myself captivated by the cheap daisies sitting in several bouquets in front of the store next to the bottles of five dollar wine. 

I remember the first day I met Cid. Funny enough, it was the first day I met Barret. It was a Thursday, the second full day of school and the one-year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks. The air was thick with something other than humidity. The weight of those who were lost hung heavy through the halls. At least someone knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who died that day. Some had cousins who perished in the towers as they had their last meal at the Windows of the World. Others knew several of the Staten Island firefighters who attended our Church; whose funerals we all attended as a school. After the third funeral, I remember feeling sick- like I was a voyeur. Infringing on someone else's grief. Cid, however, was the only one directly affected. His father was one of the police officers who ran into the towers and never came back out. 

My anxiety was flaring up that whole week- the whole day a trigger- with the constant news coverage, the reminders of how everything had changed, the front page of the Staten Island Advance listing the names of everyone who died from the island. Some whose bodies still have never been found. I was on a new anxiety medication. The good part, I could deal with the trauma of that day as if I was a spectator with no emotional connection. The bad part, insomnia was a side effect. I spent all night staring at the blue light of the T.V as infomercials tried to sell me beauty, and fame, and a flat stomach. Sometimes I turned on MTV 2 and listened to metal hour, finding comfort in Linkin Park and Chester’s brutal vocals. Or switched the Cartoon Network where I could find unedited anime and smirk at the PG13 cursing. Everything. The colors. Swirling in front of me. And I didn’t have to feel anything. 

This was not good for school. Because once that wore off and my body demanded rest, I was sitting in a hot, stuffy classroom, where teachers mindlessly recalled where they were  _ that day _ and how they could remember it like yesterday. And their even, soulless voices, dragged my eyes to shut where burning buildings and people screaming coiled around my head like a snake. The first few teachers ignored me drooling on the desk- they were made aware that this was a consequence to the medication I needed- but my Religion Teacher last period did not share their pity for me. She slammed a bible on my desk, the loud noise coupled with the nightmare, sent me up and screaming. Laughter chorused from the rest of the students; my voice hadn’t dropped, so apparently I sounded “like a girl.” She shrieked at me with a fury of a thousand pissed off gods. I was in a haze. I couldn’t make out any other words except: “Go to Mr. Palmer,  _ now _ .”

I trudged down the hall, my head low, eyes wet like a little bitch. I remember calling myself that. In my head, like a waterfall. “Bitch.” Second day of school and everyone is already laughing. I cursed that today wasn’t a national holiday for my own selfish reasons. I cursed my therapist for prescribing the medication. I cursed myself for needing it in the first place. 

I got to Palmer’s office, his secretary already informed as to why I was there, and went to take a seat. I stopped short, however, captured by the other student in the room. At least, I assumed he was a student because of the uniform, but he was at least several inches taller than even some of the seniors in the school, with a mature face melted into anger. He was breathing heavily, as if going over the events that led him to this room, and with his arms crossed over his chest. I stood there staring, trying to rationalize if he was a student or not. Also, and I hate to even think this now, but unfortunately the African American community is underrepresented in the Catholic school system in Staten Island. So this kid sitting in my Vice Principal office, one of three black students I have encountered in my, then, fourteen years of life. 

“The hell you lookin’ at shorty,” he snapped. 

I jumped back, dumbstruck at how deep his voice was. “Uh, sorry. I was trying to figure out if you are a student.”

“Why?” he sits up straight, “Cause I’m black.”

“Kinda,” I said, completely not recognizing  _ how fucked that sounded _ , “And you’re, like, mad tall and shit.”

He arched an eyebrow, “What’s wrong with you, kid?”

“Uh,” I scratched the back of my head, all my movements feeling as if they belonged to another person. “Everything. Just. Everything is wrong with me.”

“I see that,” he slouched in his seat again. 

“So, are you a senior?” I asked. 

“No, freshman.” 

I nodded. “So am I.”

He shrugged, not looking at me, “You look like you’re twelve.”

“Uhuh, I get that a lot.”

A tense silence descended between us. Palmer was taking his sweet time coming out to deal with the two students outside his office. I could hear him stammering inside like a panicked squirrel. I rocked back and forth on my feet. All the sounds, and smells, of the office overwhelming. The secretary thumbing through the newspaper with occasional sniffles. The ticking clock. The smell of old perfume from Macys. All of it made my skin crawl. 

“So, why are you here?” I asked to break the silence. He cocked an eyebrow at me before sitting up again.

“This school is mad racist. That’s what I’m here for!”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “I buy that. What happened?”

He looked confused, not expecting me-I guessed- to agree. But this is the South Shore of Staten Island. And while the North Shore also has their share of overt racism, the South Shore was notoriously white and notoriously Italian/Irish mix and notoriously spiteful towards anyone who looks different. 

“Some bitch asses in gym were giving this scrawny kid shit,” he began, “I told them to go frig off. Then they ran to the gym teacher and said they ‘felt threatened by me.” He huffed loudly. “Threatened my ass.”

“Bummer,” I said dumbly, causing him to snort and shake his head. “I wish I was threatening.”

“You only say that cause you're a shrimpy white kid,” he sighed dejectedly, “but when you're the only black guy in a school filled with white, privileged, kids, you don’t want that.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Sorry about that.”

He seemed to soften, “Nah, it wasn’t like you did it. But thanks anyway. So...what did you do?”

“Fell asleep during Religion class.”

He laughed loudly; startling the secretly who yelped and then promptly tried to shush us both. “Sorry,” he said to her before turning to me, “That’s awesome. Your teacher must of went wild.”

I laughed with him, softly, and nervously. Like the whole action felt completely alien to me. In fact, the whole interaction between us felt like an out of body experience. Or like I wasn’t in control of my mouth, or voice. I perceived myself as sounding robotic. Barret, however, swears I just sounded like I was putting myself to sleep. Either way, he was the first person I encountered where it was a positive experience; who didn’t make me feel like I was a freak or unworthy of being in the school. 

“My names Barret, by the way,” he said, extending his hand to me. 

It took me two ticks of the clock to remember what to do. I grabbed his hand-remembering to be firm, like my dad said. “Cloud.”

Suddenly, Palmer flew out of his office. I remember it being comical and I wanted to laugh. Barret just looked shocked. Vice Principal Palmer was, and is, a short greasy man in the final stages of balding whose brown suits always look wet from the sweat. He was flushed, panting. Looking around the waiting room of his office frantically before locking eyes with Barret.

“Mr. Wallace! How good to see you,” he stammers out. 

Now, this is the part where things get  _ fuzzy _ and I can’t be 100 percent sure I didn’t start dissociating, even though that is not a side effect of the medication I was on. But the whole exchange felt wrong. And to this day, I’m not exactly sure of the details of what led both Barret and I from Palmer’s office to taking the bus to Cid’s house. According to Barret, Palmer had screwed the pooch and was trying to save his own ass. He did this by handing Barret an envelope and instructions to head to the Highwinds, hand the mother the envelope, and send his _ sincerest apologies _ . Now, there’s probably legal and moral objections to doing this- sending two fourteen year olds on a mission to smooth over a fractured relationship. But, hey, it got the both of us out of detention, so we accepted the assignment. 

I remember him rattling off a million thanks in between asking me who I was exactly because apparently  _ Cloud Strife _ isn’t a memorable enough name. 

At this point, I’m just following Barret’s lead. I never took the bus. Mine and Seph’s parents were supposed to trade off picking us up and today was his parents turn. I found out later that once Sephiroth didn’t immediately see me after school, he just told his mom to go on without me. So, there I was, crammed on a bus with someone I just met, heading to a classmate I never met, who lived on a part of the island I had rarely been to. I couldn’t get home if I wanted to. I was basically at Barret’s mercy, and thankfully, he wasn’t a bad guy. We talked football, he convinced me to try out for the sport even though I was scrawny and short. We discussed our favorite video games and T.V shows. And it was nice, having someone to talk to who didn’t make fun of my interests after I listed them. 

When we got off the bus, we were near the 7/11.

“Yo, let’s get some food or something, I’m fucking hungry,” Barret grumbled, “You got any money on you, shorty?”

“Uh,” I dug through my pockets, uncovering what I thought was a crumbled twenty but turned out to be a hundred dollar bill my mom gave me by mistake. 

Barret’s eyes went wide, “Shit, look at you Richie Rich.” Then he snapped his fingers (though when he tells it, he says he never snapped his fingers cause  _ that shits gay _ ) “I got an idea. We should get this Cid kid a bunch of snacks and shit. I think that would cheer him up.”

“Why do you think he’s sad?” I said in a daze. 

“Bro, keep it together! Did you not hear what Palmer said? This kids dad died last year.”

A wave of bile flew up my throat but I pushed it down and tried to calm my heart that suddenly woke up. “Right. Yeah. Let’s do that.”

We headed into the 7/11, one hundred dollars to spend, and proceeded to grab everything any fourteen year old boy would want to overdose on- M&Ms and Skittles and probably seven different bags of chips. We get to the drinks in the back of the store. Barret grabs a Mountain Dew and a Coke; something simple for the boy we don’t know. Which reminded me, we were doing all of this, for a kid we never met. That we know goes to our school and probably share some classes with, but this could all be for nothing. He could easily slam the door in our face and call us weird. My heart started racing again, but I looked over at Barret- who stood like a giant next to my short ass- and he looked so assured of himself. Occasionally mentioning that “everyone likes” this so it would be a “safe bet.” Not even questioning for a moment if this was the right thing to do. It just  _ was _ . 

I felt a renewed confidence, something I haven’t felt for a long time. I grabbed my own drink while garners an abrupt response from Barret. “You are actually choosing cherry coke?”

“Uh-y-yeah?” I stuttered weakly, “I like cherry soda…” That confidence? Gone. Everytime I picked cherry soda, Sephiroth called me that word which crushed me every time I heard it. Which was frequent on Staten Island. Not meant to be derogatory, at least that’s what he said, it was just something to say like bitch and pussy and asshole. But it didn’t change how it was received. 

“Shit tastes like medicine,” he bit back, and I was relieved, “come on. Let's pay for this shit and bounce. We don’t want to get there too late”

Cid’s street was packed with cars. His house, the third one down, looked crowded from the outside. The two car driveway struggling with three. Some adults were hanging on the front lawn smoking cigarettes while dressed in suits. Soft chatter grew into thick Brooklyn accents as we approached the door. No one outside acknowledged us- just another set of people there to pay their respects. The wooden door was opened, allowing us to see several people squeezing into the small living room and kitchen. Barret and I exchanged a look and hesitated before knocking on the storm door. A large guy, about 6’4 with the frame a linebacker would be envious of, appeared in front of the door, eyes narrowed and brows curved in anger. 

“Can I help you boys?” His voice booming. 

“Yes sir,” Barret cleared his throat, “We’re friends of...uh….Cid? From school.”

“And, we...have something for Mrs. Highwind from the school…” I showed him the envelope. 

He didn’t look impressed with either of us. We would find out later, this behemoth of a man, is Cid’s uncle and his pissed off expression had more to do with Cid than with us. But I could feel Barret shifting uncomfortably next to me as we stood in front of him. After a few breathless seconds, he opened the door. “Cid’s in the backyard. I’ll take this.” he takes the envelope from my hand, “I can’t believe they made a couple of kids do this. Fucking shitheads.”

He stomped away. Barret and I carefully navigated the cluster of people towards the back door located in the kitchen. Some people nodded at us silently, before returning to their conversations. It was...overwhelming. The feeling of sadness coming from all these strangers. It felt like a year ago, like I was walking breathlessly through fog. My body feeling disjointed from the rest of my being. Muffled conversations trying to break through the dense air, but falling dead before they reached my ears. It was a relief when we exited. Entered the backyard. Where we saw Cid for the first time. 

He sat on a table, staring through the swing set in front of him. His black suit jacket resting next to him with his tie. He looked vacant. Empty. Trying to battle something inside that threatened to come out. That was until he heard our footsteps approaching and turned to look at us. Blank stare, gave way to shock, gave way to anger in a flash. 

“Who the fuck are you guys?” He snapped. 

“Woah woah,” Barret started, holding up the two plastic bags, “I’m Barret Wallace, shorty over here is Cloud. We come bearing gifts.”

Cid titled his head, scanning the two of us with his eyes. Obvious from our uniforms, we were from school. “Why?” He asks. 

“Why not?” Barret retorted, placing the bags next to Cid. 

“You don’t know me,” Cid continued, his voice low and almost threatening. 

“Actually, you’re in my gym class,” Barret confessed. “You punched the hole in the wall yesterday, right?”

Cid straightened his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at Barret, “Yeah. I think I remember you.” He moved his eyes to me; and I remember thinking he looked like a lion scanning his prey moving only his iris’. “I think you’re in my English class. You fell asleep yesterday.”

“Oh yeah,” I pretended to know what he was talking about. The day before was rough and I hardly remembered the six hours of school before I came home and passed out. “S-sorry…”

“The fuck you sorry for, guy,” Cid’s voice cracked like thunder, “your shit doesn’t affect me at all! What the hell is your problem?”

“Woah,” Barret scolded, “chill out man.”

“Chill out! Did you just tell me to chill out.” He jumped off the table. I realized he was only a bit taller than me, maybe a few inches, but the way his voice commanded attention made him look more menacing. But he was shaking. I remember that. His fist clenching and unclenching as if considering the thought of punching one or both of us. And knowing now, what I know, it wouldn’t have been personal. But it wouldn’t have ended well. “Do you have any idea what the fuck is going on in there!” He pointed at the house as if cursing it’s existence. 

Now, Barret had the right idea. Keep your mouth shut. This rage which flushed Cid’s face and infected his eyes was not directed at anyone or anything tangible. It was abstract. It was towards something, an event, or even a person- but a person who he couldn’t hit anymore. But he could hit us. And he wanted to.

And I was delirious. And sleep deprived. And really thirsty from the walk and confused as to why I was there. So the words that tumbled from my mouth meant nothing to me, but it was like a rock against Cid’s head. “A memorial for your dead dad?”

When Barret and Cid retell this story, they erupt in laughter at my lack of tack. The question he spewed was rhetorical. It did not warrant a literal answer. The day it happened, they didn’t find it as humorous. 

“What the hell is wrong with you, kid,” Barret sighed. 

“Oh,” I perked up, “Sorry. I don’t even know what I said.” Ever feel so tired your lips vibrate? Your eyes feel like needles. I was there.

“Are you on drugs?” Cid seethed, slowly approaching me.

“Yes.” 

He stopped. Another look shared between the two of them, before I felt their eyes burning into my very soul. 

I continued, “I’m on medication for...uh...depression and anxiety?”

“Oh, okay…” Cid arched an eyebrow.

“So that’s why you’re so fucking weird,” Barret chimed in. 

“Well,” I looked down, ashamed by my confession to two boys I’ve only just met, “I mean...it just keeps me up at night so I’m tired during the day a-”

“Chill,” Cid stopped me, “You don’t have to tell us. Like, no worries man.”

I didn’t know it then, but Cid understood depression. At least as a spectator. He understood that for a year, his mother could barely get out of bed to take care of him and his two brothers. He had to shoulder the responsibility of raising his siblings until his mother could find the strength to pull herself together. But it took a while. And he knew the tears she shed in private, and sometimes the ones she burdened with him. So he knew the word depression- he knew what it meant beyond a dictionary definition. He knew how it felt. Barret didn’t- not so much then. He knew later that night when he told his father, an adjunct professor at the College of Staten Island psychology department. 

And it's different when you have people in your life who understand what that word means beyond the stereotypes. Or believe that a fourteen year old could have that diagnosis. I no longer felt I needed to justify my quirks. They just knew. And they didn’t turn away. 

We stood in an awkward silence for a few minutes before Cid went back to the bags and started digging through them. “What did you guys get? Th-who the fuck drinks cherry coke!”

“Guess,” Barret walked over and grabbed his Mountain Dew. 

I slowly approached the two, tugging at my sleeves. Cid handed it to me. We were close enough that I noticed his slate blue eyes that fluctuated. He used to tell girls he had “mood eyes”- blue when angry, gray when happy, and green when horny. He’s full of shit, but that line actually worked a few times. “Thank you.”

Cid plopped on the chair next to the table, fiddling with a Slim Jim, but not opening it. His face fell again; a frown tattooed on his face. I wonder now if he knows, his eyes turn a mix of blue and green when he’s sad. The three of us sat in silence; taking strained sips of our sodas. I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to stay; but leaving felt wrong. Even with being tired enough to nap the rest of my life away, I would look over a Cid and couldn’t muster up the energy to call to go home. He would never admit he  _ needed _ us there. He would go on to say we could have left at any time but we were just lazy. 

Everyone knows that’s bullshit. 

Finally, Barret broke the silence. “Hey, so, why did Palmer send us here with an envelope man?”

Cid rose his head slowly, eyes now blue. “ _ Palmer _ sent you fucktards here?”

Now it was Barret and I who exchanged a look. Cid jumped from his seat, “What did that asshole tell you?”

“Hey just said,” Barret tried to recall, “that he made a mistake, and to give your mom the envelope and say sorry.” Which we completely failed at doing.

Cid unleashed a painfully angry laugh, “Oh a  _ mistake _ . He says a  _ mistake _ . So it was a  _ mistake _ when he called my mom this morning, right at 8:40am, when we were standing outside with the rest of the families of the  _ victims _ . Getting ready for our  _ moment _ of silence. And it was a  _ mistake _ when she didn’t answer and he called again at 9:30am, and again at 10:00am. Leaving voicemail after voicemail.  _ Reminding her _ how  _ important my fucking attendance at school is _ . And that since I am on a scholarship-should be grateful for the fucking opportunity to go to that shit school, with those shit people- I need to be careful about how many days I miss because, hey! They ‘gave’ me the scholarship, and they can ‘take it away.’ And then ‘how could we afford such an invaluable education.”

He took a sharp breath and exhaled into a cracked laugh that contradicted the sudden tears that brimmed his eyes. “Nah, nah. The mistake was when she did call back and instead of letting her explain, he just listed off all the mistakes I had made in  _ three days  _ of fucking school. And sure, maybe hitting the wall was a bad idea in gym. But fuck, if one more person comes up to me and calls my dad a hero, I’m going to punch them in the face. I can’t keep hearing it! It’s so fucking fake!

“He wasn’t a hero! He was doing his fucking  _ job _ . But his fucking job took him away. From us. From my mom. He should fucking be  _ here _ . I didn’t ask to be the ‘man of the house’. I’m fucking, shit, fourteen-years-old. I’m supposed to be making mistakes, and sleeping till 12 on weekends, and doing my homework after school, and hanging out with friends. Not raising my brothers, and cooking dinner. 

“And I’m not blaming my mom, no, no way. She’s doing everything she can.” He points at the house again, jabbing his finger in the direction aggressively, “It’s all these assholes! Who say ‘if there’s anything you need’ like it’s a recording they are supposed to play everytime a tragedy happens. But they don’t fucking mean it. They came for the first  _ month _ . A  _ month!  _ Then nothing. 

“And then I get the lecture, from that fucking shit head uncle, that I am not pulling my weight. That my father would be  _ so disappointed  _ in me. Well,  **fuck him and fuck you.”**

Several sets of eyes stared at us through the sliding glass doors. Cid’s eyes were engulfed in anger and tears, that fell down his cheeks. And out of everything that happened that day, that moment stood out. Clear as day. I think about that moment a lot. Because it was the first time I felt selfish for my actions. For my depression and anxiety. No one else vocalized their feelings for that day with such veracity. No one else's stories felt appropriate now. This was the fall out. Like a bomb, Cid exploded. And it was the first time he did, but it wouldn’t be the last. The next year, when we all gathered, he gave another compelling speech, which was clouded because it resulted in a fist fight between him and his uncle. But he needed that. He needed that moment, the first year. To just explode. 

He took a few strangled breaths while we sat behind him. Suddenly, my phone ringing broke through the tense silence. And of course, it just had to be  _ Complicated _ by Avril Lavinge. 

I scrambled like an idiot, grabbing my phone from the pocket, while both Barret and Cid were shouting about me even having a phone. “Uh hello?” I flip it open and immediately hear Sephiroth’s voice. 

“You, fucktard, where the hell are you? I’m at your house and you ain’t here.”

“Uh, yeah, so,” I look up and Cid is mouthing “who is that.” “I’m at Cid Highwind’s house.”

“Oh the psychopath who punched a hole in the gym,” Sephiroth laugh echoed through the phone. 

“Who the fuck is calling me a psychopath.” Cid was suddenly on me, grabbing the phone from my hand and screaming into the receiver. “Who the fuck is this?”

I could only hear one side of the conversation. But it went from:

“I’m the apparent psychopath, who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Oh yeah? You want to come say that to my face?”

“Yooooooooooo, I will knock your teeth in my guy.”

“Yeah, son? You want this. Meet me at the 7/11 in New Dorp.”

“New Dorp isn't the ghetto, you pussy.”

‘You heard me.”

“Yeah, pussy!”

“Yeah I’ll take a cigarette, you buying?”

“Cool shit, I’ll be there in 15.” 

He hung up and threw the phone to me. “Let’s go, I’m going to kick your pussy friend’s ass then smoke his cigarettes.”

We ended up grabbing the snacks and walking to the 7/11, dressed still in our uniforms and Sunday’s finest. I remember Cid’s uncle trying to chase him down the street, but stopped when he realized it was futile. We did make it to the 7/11 where Sephiroth was waiting. But they didn’t fight. Instead Sephiroth threw him a pack of cigarettes he bought from the deli on the island that doesn’t card, told him he was sorry about his dad and to stop being a pussy. For some reason, the brutal, unrelenting honesty, softened Cid. 

Not long after, we ran into Tifa, who was quickly making friends at her new school. She was surrounded by little rocker boys who tried to act tough when they saw us. All except Vincent, the quiet kid in the back of the group with long stringy black hair and pale skin, who seemed to just be following the pack like a puppy. Somehow, we all decided to head back to his place that he shared with his aunt and grandmother who really couldn’t care less when eight kids showed up and proceeded to take over the house. Hooked up  _ Halo _ and  _ Call of Duty _ . Smoked cigarettes with his aunt as she told us about her life as a sex doll. And maybe this was when my terrible smoking habit finally began. And it was the first time I went 24 hours without sleeping. But I had new friends. And for a moment, felt like a normal kid. 

So it became a tradition. A fairly new one, but needed. 

Barret places his hand on my shoulder to shake me out my trance. “Yo, my dude, I got your cherry soda.” 

“Thanks man,” I say, suddenly with a hint of sadness. “You think we should get these for his mom?”

“Good idea, man,” he nods, “too bad we can’t buy her the wine. She probably needs it.”

  
  
  


This is the third year of the memorials. And the crowd that follows to Cid’s house has dwindled. There are still a few bodies in the kitchen, making some meals for the family so Samantha doesn’t have to worry about cooking, and some of Cid’s extended cousins in the living room arguing over football. Giants vs Jets, the age old debate. Cid’s mom is sitting at the table staring into space, as she does during these things. Her face slowly becomes brighter as the years go on. She smiles when we enter- though I notice she gives Tifa a weary look- and graciously accepts the convenience store flowers. 

Cid’s in his spot on the table. This time watching his two brothers wrestle in front of him. He’s still in his suit, his leg bouncing up and down as if anxious. He doesn’t look when he hears our footsteps this time. Hands folded on his lap. I note his eyes are a mix of blues and greens. His short dirty blonde hair not gelled into messy spikes. He doesn’t look like himself. In fact, and I wouldn’t say this, he looks like the picture of his father which sits on the shelf over his T.V.

Silently, Tifa takes a seat next to him. While she wasn’t there in the beginning two years ago, we found out quickly that only she could engage him in this way. Resting her head on his shoulder and rubbing his back with her fingers. An action, if anyone of us tried, would have been rewarded with a swift kick to the nuts. But she’s a girl, her touch more inviting. 

“Hey sad boy,” she whispers in his ear and he allows his face to crack a smile. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he lies, then turns to me, “Sephiroth couldn’t be bothered?”

I bit my bottom lip, “He called this morning. Said he had to do some shit for his dad and will meet up with us later.” This is the truth, as far as I am aware. I don’t mention the party- and then remember I forgot the stupid envelope from Rufus in my locker. Oh well.

“Whatever,” he shrugs, “Don’t matter to me.”

Barret leaves us for a moment to entertain the wrestling younger siblings, who scream in excitement to see their “best friend, Barret.” Cid grimaces. Something about his brothers’ joy on this day always bothered him. They were too young when their father died, the youngest doesn’t remember him at all. So Cid, at thirteen, had to shoulder all their grief. And their memories. He sits there, scanning the floor for something to squish, or just looking down to capture a fading memory of his father. I see his lip tremble slightly, and Tifa scoots closer to him, still tracing patterns on his back. As if her fingers could calm whatever he was feeling. Then he looks at her slightly exposed legs. Scanning up and then to me. We don’t make eye contact, but I see him looking at my wrists. 

Then he places his hand on her knee; and I wonder why I suddenly felt my chest lock up. She stifles the giggle that trembles on her lips in his hair. 

“You guys look like fucking jackasses,” he laughs, “At least Barret knows how to dress. Fuck.”

The three of us collapse into laughter, while he shakes his head at us. Tifa moves back a bit, “What?” she chuckled, “I don’t look cute.”

He’s staring at her chest, which isn’t hard to do. “You look fine,” he smirks, and his eyes are green, “My uncle is probably shitting his pants inside seeing the three of yous walk in.”

“Isn’t that the goal?” I cross my arms over my chest, “Piss off your uncle?”

“And I can always count on you fucks to help.” He looks at me for a second, a quick second, before looking back at Tifa. I can’t see her face, but she’s probably smiling at him because he has this dumb grin on his face that I haven’t seen in a while. “Maybe I should join the party then?” He slides off the table, using Tifa’s leg as a support. “I’m going to change and then we can meet up with Vincent- why didn’t he come by, by the way?”

Vincent didn’t usually come to the house. But I noticed he and Cid were growing closer in the last year since they lived relatively close to each other. Tifa offers a response. “Oh, he said he can’t handle being surrounded by the smell of death and hopes you understand.”

He nods, “he’s forgiven then.” He heads passed me, stopping to place a hand on my shoulder, “You good, Strifey?”

I look at him. There was a time we were briefly the same height; not anymore. He’s taller, and stronger. He does wrestling in the winter, lacrosse in the spring. Football in Miller Field with the group, where there’s no rules. He’s gotten into his share of fights because of how often he runs his mouth. But he never fought me. We had this bond that was stronger than the one I shared with Sephiroth; a bond that fused that first day when we sat in Vincent’s backyard and he gave me my first cigarette. It was late, Barret’s parents had already picked him up and I was waiting for my dad to get me and Sephiroth. Vincent was in his room playing games still, grumbling about the smoke seeping into his window. It was there, Cid finally crumbled and cried. On my shoulder. And I was on my second wind, but still too awkward. So I hugged him. And I remember being terrified he was going to punch me, call me gay, or spit on me. Instead he hugged back and asked me if it will ever go away? Because he can’t take feeling so empty anymore.

He was the first person I told about my attempt, that same night. When he caught the scars on my wrist that were still angry and red. He asked me,  _ was it worth it _ ? And I lied and told him  _ no. _ Because I didn’t want him to think for a second that it was an option for him. 

My dad gave him a ride home. I gave him my number even though he didn’t have a cell phone then. Suddenly he’s at my house nearly everyday after school, trying to run away from his family. And he became the brother I never had. The one I had always looked for in Sephiroth. 

Now, we’re sixteen. A lot of people suggest we have a secret romance, which we laugh off because at least Cid is comfortable enough in his sexuality to joke around; and no one desires getting their jaw broken by his fist if they ever made an offensive comment. And while I am confident that our friendship will survive the trials of High School, as I look at him with his gray eyes, and recall the way his hands slide up Tifa’s legs, and how this hasn’t been the first time he found a reason to touch her, I realize his question-  _ you good?- _ has a specific meaning. 

And I smile, like a liar. “Yeah man.”

He flashes me a satisfied grin and goes inside to change into his Punk uniform, complete with Black Flag shirt and vest. Tifa plays with her hair, her eyes finding her shoes suddenly incredibly interesting, and doesn’t even look at me when I take a seat next to her. 

  
  


We four mismatched hooligans walk the streets of Staten Island, heading back to the 7/11 where the rest of the goons are waiting for us. Biggs, Wedge, and Vinny are now joined by newcomer Yuffie, who is dressed nearly the same as Tifa except in red. She’s a year younger, so we forgive her “single white (or in his case, Asian) female” vibe. Cid tackles Vincent, who just remains as stone face as ever by the burst of affection, and takes him to the dirty ground in front of the store. Everyone laughs. Like a routine we start lighting our cigarettes and making small talk. Yuffie prances near Barret who is 100 percent  _ not  _ interested but she can’t take a hint. Biggs tries to dare Wedge to eat the entire bag of skittles we bought earlier, which are half melted by now. Tifa now decides she wants to be near me, and we sit together on one of the parking space blocks with our cigarettes. The last remnants of the summer breeze cascade over the group. Games are always an option, if we wanted the walk down New Dorp lane to Vincent’s small house. But something about holding on to the last breaths of the outside before the crushing winter inevitably sends us inside keeps us in front of the glowing store. 

We are loud, by the way. Staten Islander’s are loud in general. A cluster of teenagers outside any of these stores on the strip- the 7/11, the Wendy’s parking lot, the Blockbuster parking lot- and the volume increases. The sky gives way to purples and pinks when the clerk inside finally had enough of us and starts chasing us away. As we start walking towards Vincent, Cid vocalizes a different idea. 

“Yo, why don’t we go to the pier?”

“That shits mad far, bro,” Barret complains, and he isn’t entirely wrong. It’s about an hour walk. Maybe 45 minutes if we cut through Miller field. But I have a suspicion as to why Cid wants to go that far down island. 

“Don’t be a pussy, Barret,” I mumble. 

He turns, “Cloud, I will literally kill you!”

“Hey!” Cid throws his arms around my neck, nearly sending me to the concrete. “Don’t talk to my boyfriend like that, man. If anyone is killing him,  _ it’s me. _ ”

Barret doesn’t continue the argument and just accepts we are walking. Cid releases me and messes up my already messy hair as a thank you. 

The pier overlooks the Verrazano Bridge which leads to Brooklyn. It also has a decent enough view of the two parallel lights that shine where the Twin Towers used to stand. He hasn’t wanted to go in the years prior. Something about this year, I guess, he had a change of heart. The walk takes us exactly forty-nine minutes. During that time we meet up with some other randoms, including Jessie, who links arms with Tifa and Yuffie as they skip ahead of us. Reeve Tuesti, who is the only chill guy in Rufus’ group, joins us as he jogs up and down the length of the boardwalk to train for Cross Country. He leaves soon after we light our second or third cigarettes of the day. This is Staten Island. A small fourteen mile island where you can’t escape running into someone you know. Be it the boardwalk, or the mall, or conference house steps. It’s frustrating. Annoying. But I found myself biting my lip and wondering if I’d run into Reno. 

I walk next to Vincent as we fall to the back of the loud group. He doesn’t smoke cigarettes, but he doesn’t mind the smell anymore- kind had to come to terms with it once everyone around him picked up the habit. He’s quiet as usual, head low, following the path his shoes take him. 

“You look strange, today,” he says matter-of-factly.

I nearly laugh, “Oh? Is it the outfit?”

“No,” and it wouldn’t, because this guy is wearing a long ass trench coat over his entirely black outfit, “It’s your face.” 

I laugh with him, his a gentle chuckle that barely holds any volume. “Yeah, I guess. Got something on my mind.”

A short silence and then he rattles me. “Something you’re not ready to think about, I guess.”

I end the conversation there. And Vincent isn’t offended. We walk together until we end up at the pier, surprisingly scarce of bodies for being a nice day. We take over the two benches in front of the chess tables. The street lights have ignited and offer enough illumination we can comfortably see each other. The smell of salt water fills my nose and the soft crash of the waves before over a calming silence. I stand a bit away from the group, staring towards the bridge where two blue lights shoot into the sky; a visual reminder of what we lost that day. Talks and arguments about what to put in place have gained momentum in following years. Should anything be placed there except a cemetery for those still buried? Should we rebuild, show the terrorist how we emerge from tragedy like the Phoenix; braver and bolder. 

Suddenly the cuffs on my wrists feel too tight. Like they are tugging at the imaginary string that keeps me together. 

How I wish I was a phoenix. 

I lound, obnoxious, “yo” breaks me from my day dream. And I turn to see Sephiroth show up with a clearly annoyed Genesis Rhapsodos- each holding two 30 packs of PBR, even though they can both afford Bud Light. I wonder how he found us. My phone silent this entire time. But I notice Jessie bouncing over to grab a beer- and wonder if she’s the culprit- despite Yuffie reminding everyone that we could get in trouble for drinking on the pier. Seph and Genesis don’t look phased at all, and the rest of the group decides to partake- police be damned. 

Sephiroth walks over the Cid, who is sitting on top of the bench also looking at the lights, and hands him a beer. “Hey man, sorry I’m late.” 

Cid shrugs, “No worries, bro. It’s cool.” But it’s not cool. Cid forces a smile through clenched teeth and I can’t tell from where I’m standing, but I guess his eyes are blue. I don’t think Sephiroth buys that pathetic lie anyway, and he walks over to me immediately. 

We stand silently as he takes a few sips of his beer and I light my fourth cigarette of the day- remembering Reno’s comment about killing ourselves with nicotine. 

“Angeal’s party got cancelled, huh?” I ask finally. 

He flashes me that fake smile, “No, I came here after I helped my dad like I said I would.” I throw him a look. “And Angeal’s parents had a change of plans. Shit, I’m here right?”

I guess he had a point. A weak as fuck point. We stand in silence, as the crowd behind us grows loud once again. And there’s talk about going onto the beach to be shrouded in darkness and easier to hide from any nosey cops or pedestrians. The lights from Brooklyn and New Jersey shimmer across the ocean, like artificial stars, taking their place in the sky. The cars from the blue bridge rumble overhead like a mindless hum. Signs of life continuing. The world still turning. I take drags of my cigarette while Sephiroth stands with his phone in his hand, as if waiting for something better to call. 

“Jessie’s checking you out, by the way,” he says, still looking at his phone though, “You going to seal the deal, or what?”

I want to let out this bitter laugh, but I hold it in. “What? You’re not going to cock block me this time?”

He lifts his eyes from his phone and looks directly  _ into _ me. His lips curved into a wicked smirk. Narrowed hazel eyes that pierce right through me. I feel small next to him. I am, but Sephiroth towers over me like a monster. “I saved you that night,  _ remember _ .” I don’t and he knows. And the edge in his voice contradicts the smile on his face. “Besides, Cloud, sticking your dick in another pussy will help you get over the last one. 

“Time to move on right?” He continues. “Get over it?”

His tone is threatening. And I know the night he’s referencing. Another night void of memories. And I drag my tongue behind my teeth, because there’s something I’ve been dying to confront him about. But the way he looks down on me with those blank eyes freezes me. And I try to pretend that he’s just looking out for me. That this is the visage of a good friend. And it doesn’t matter what I think I saw. Or what I heard. That night needs to be shoved into the blackness of my mind with the rest of the mistakes. A night where I walked in with a girlfriend and walked out single with a bloody lip. So I shake it off, and I push through a small smile in the hopes this convinces him. 

“Well, when you’re right, you’re right.” 

His laugh sounds like a warning. He places his hand on my shoulder, much like Cid had done, but his voice is as cold as the ocean below us. “You know I’m always looking out for you, Cloud.”

He walks away and takes any ounce of self-respect I own with him. Like he feeds off it. Jessie trades places with him. Her smile warm but empty. She hands me a beer and starts rambling about Tifa not passing along her number. I extinguish my cigarette and give her an equally vacant smile that feigns interest. I feel Tifa’s eyes burning the back of my head; and I see her make her way to Cid, where she plays with the chains on his pants. And I wonder what I’m really so concerned about.

Because even with Jessie moving in closer so her leg brushes against mine. 

And even with Cid looking like he’s dangerously close to putting a crack in this friendship. 

And Sephiroth grimacing in the back because he knows what he did. 

My thoughts suddenly settle on someone else. Someone who’s been on the bench in my head this entire day. Someone who I wished I would have stumbled across at some point on this small, shitty, island. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a DOOSY of a chapter. But I felt it was needed to get a better understanding of Cloud and his friend group.   
> Also, drinking on the pier, totally something we did as kids. 0 care in the world. It's a shock we survived the early 2000s.   
> It always makes me laugh when adults don't think teenagers were drinking and doing drugs in high school. There was always like 6 delis I knew of that sold you cigarettes and beer and never checked your ID.   
> Also if you're asking your "Why does she keep describing nearly every person's car as white." Its because literally every.single.car on Staten Island is white.


	8. Denial

My mind has been a mess for so long, I’m not sure where to start. 

But within the week of my second pathetic make out session with Jessie, I’ve felt like I’m on a roller coaster stuck at the top of a drop, and I want to jump off. 

That Saturday, we all stumbled down to the beach; intoxicated on alcohol and high on weed. I’m not even sure who introduced the weed. Maybe it was Genesis; he’s a senior and has pretty much every drug connection on the island. But that’s not important. Anyone can get weed. But it was the combination. The loss of inhibitions. Jessie was all over me. Relentless, her M.O. was play fighting me as I tried to pin her on the sand so she would stop. And everytime, I could fucking smell the rage from Tifa, who sat there making obviously bitchy comments towards the both of us. I wanted to dare her to do what she was  _ thinking  _ of doing. 

But that would be crossing a line, I suspected. Because she changed her target from Cid, who started drunk calling his ex-girlfriend, Shera who attends Curtis High School near the ferry, and focused suddenly on Biggs. And whatever, she can do what she wants. And Biggs is traditionally attractive with his smooth facial features and wide, puppy, eyes- which were locked directly on her chest as she moved closer to him in the sand to whisper in his ear. 

Sephiroth and Genesis started bitching about the lack of girls- no one really trying to touch poor Yuffie who was still trying to sit on Barret’s lap- so they started inviting more. And I guess that’s why suddenly, Elena, and Cissnei, and Scarlet from our school were sneaking onto the beach wearing shorts that looked more like underwear, and each holding a brown bag with vodka. 

Now, this was getting ridiculous. And I am not pleased that I shared a bottle with Cissnei and Jessie, who started to seem more interested in each other than me; but I am okay with the fact that I have two girls nearly sitting on my lap, leaning very close to each other.

Because it  _ looks _ good to the other guys. And I could hear the pings of jealously in their tones when they tried to comment. 

Then between Cissnei and Jessie literally kissing on my lap, and Vincent trying to calm Cid down who had started screaming into his phone at his ex, and noticing Tifa and Biggs had disappeared, I was underneath the boardwalk with the spiders and abandoned needles. And I had a girl against one the wood pillars- and I remember needing to pull away to make sure it was Jessie. And we were making out like it’s the last thing in this world to do. Her breath tasted like alcohol as she jammed her tongue in my mouth. I thought, this is terrible. I’m not even having fun. I had my arms around her small waist, limp and uninterested with her ass, or her breasts that are dangerously close to spilling out of the tiny tank top. And I hate how aware I was. That the alcohol and weed haven’t numbed my mind to this. 

And I hated myself just a little more when she grabbed my crotch aggressively, and whispered in my ear, “How are you not hard yet?”

And shit, I never wanted Sephiroth to cock block me more than in that moment. 

“The alcohol,” I lied, breathing heavily against her head which she took as arousal because she didn’t immediately remove her hand. I don’t have the heart to tell her that she isn’t good enough to make that happen with minimal effort. I have to fall back on a technique I’ve used before when the mask starts to crack. And I tried to imagine she’s anyone else. So when I go back to kissing her, we can get something out of this. But the person who slinks into my head isn’t who I expected.

Or maybe I should have.

Because they had been on my mind sporadically all day. 

And I want to move away from that thought. Jerk back. Stop the whole thing. 

Then the alcohol swings into my head like a bat. And I find myself actually considering what it would feel like if my hands traveled up his body. To his face. And instead of feeling the softness of Jessie, feeling stubble and rough edges. 

But she smiled against my lips and caught her breath and ruined the whole thing.

But just as well because: “Cops on the beach” echoed through the boardwalk. And we were all running in different, chaotic directions, to escape the red and blue lights. By the time we all met up, we lost half the group. We ended up walking, or stumbling, and sharing a blunt to Vincent’s house. Vincent, Cid, Barret, Yuffie, Jessie and I. We meet up with Biggs and Tifa who were actually at a convenience store getting sandwiches- which was such a fucking clutch idea, I almost didn’t notice Tifa glaring at me. 

When we got to Vincent’s house, I laid on his bed and pretended to pass out to get Jessie to stop her aggressive assault on my body. I did eventually fall asleep to my friends laughing while the sounds of pixelated gun shots flew overhead. 

I woke up to several new problems to deal with now. 

Tifa’a one word text messages throughout the week.

Jessie blowing up my phone every day. 

And the fact that I needed to see Reno, everyday, after he slithered into my head under the boardwalk. 

And I had even forgotten, up until I saw him in person hanging out with Rufus and his gang, that the last thing I said to him was “handsome fella.”

What the fuck was that shit? 

The beginning of the week I dreaded the inevitable comment that would fly from his mouth the moment we would be near each other again. But nothing. Just casual conversation from him. He seemed engrossed in his school work during class. Physics was all business with a few jokes peppered in to lighten the mood. Especially when I started stressing out at the way the numbers twisted and turned in front of my eyes. And I was relieved, I think. That he didn’t mention my poor excuse at...what was that even? Flirting? And that I didn’t see him after school to give me a ride home. That was just fine. How it should be. I have enough friends, right. 

I dove into my classwork more than I had in the last two years. And after school, I actually found myself doing homework as an excuse to dodge Jessie’s demands to see me after school. I think she vented to Tifa, because towards the end of the week, the red-eyed girl returned some of my texts with something longer than a passive aggressive ‘k.’ Everything slowly crept to normal. Maybe some problems  _ do _ solve themselves. 

However, I am still unable to solve Math problems. 

And in Math, we are preparing for the Math B regents we have to take at the end of junior year. Considering I had to take the Math A regents twice before I got a passing grade, I really need all the help I can get. But my dad never gets home early enough for us to tackle it together. And I’m too embarrassed to seek out a tutor- because apparently no one else in this school needs one. I am actively trying to understand what Mr. Gast is trying to communicate to the class. Both because I need to do well this year and because it distracts me from the red-head sitting in front of me, slouching in his seat like he could be somewhere better and staring at the window. His blue eyes reflect the sun so they look like two pools of clear ocean water. His pencil tapping gently against his lips. 

Mr. Gast offers a problem: “Chad had a garden that was in the shape of a rectangle. Its length was twice its width. He decided to make a new garden that was 2 feet longer and 2 feet wider than his first garden. If x represents the original width of the garden, which expression represents the difference between the area of his new garden and the area of the original garden?”

I’m scribbling like crazy, my eyes focused on the curves of the numbers more than their meaning. It shouldn’t be too hard. It’s just a bunch of 2s. 2 is small. 2 I can handle. But then I start having to add? Or multiply? And there’s way too many X’s involved now. But I force myself past the distraction of drawing out the rectangles and try to follow with the formula he had given us. And I’m so involved that I don’t even realize my hand shot up to answer until Gast sputters my name.

And he’s as shocked as I am. 

Reno also turns to look at me, arching an eyebrow and I realize for a second that his brows don’t match his hair- which I should have made a note of. Or not.

“Yeah, uh, the answer is 6x^4+2?” I say unsure, but hoping it’s right. 

However, his face deflates, “Close...can anyone help Mr. Strife?”

Reno immediately swings around his seat with his hand up. “Yeah it’s 6x+4.”

I rub my head. I can’t even see where I messed that up. Fuck Chad and his garden. And fuck Reno and his Math abilities. 

“Hey,” he whispers and I look up. Reno is half turned in his seat scanning my paper. “You know I could help you if you want?”

“No,” I murmur, suddenly embarrassed. 

He places his pencil on my paper, “You’re not too far off here. You just needed to-”

“I said no,” I snap quietly. And he flinches before narrowing his eyes at me, but I can’t bear to look at them, so hang my head and stare at my shitty attempt at trying. 

The bell rings. He rises from his seat, pushing it aggressively so it hits my desk. I think he’s going to stomp out and I have to feel him raging next to me during English. Instead he slams his hand on my desk, my eyes shooting up to his. “I’ll be in the library during lunch if you want to actually pass Math this year.” And walks away. 

My heart pounds. 

Something else happens that keeps me rooted to the seat for a few moments, before the next class starts filtering in and I’m forced to get up and leave. 

The way his voice cracked, like a glass bottle over my head, caused my breath to hitch in the same way as outside his car when he called me an asshole. And I’m not sure if this is becoming a trend. And for a minute, I thought about taking him up on his offer, just because of how forceful and commanding his accent was as it wrapped around each word. Subtle. Like it’s more aggressive than he wants. Like he’s hiding his, the way I hide mine. 

But I decide not to. Because that would be giving in and admitting something to him. Again. And I’ve given him entirely too much. Too soon. I’m not prepared to address all my struggles. I’m in between therapists, and in between abusing my medication. And there’s only so much self-medicating on alcohol can do before it betrays me. 

As usual, I head to the secret bathroom during lunch to chain smoke on an empty stomach. I kick the door open and the smell of smoke hits me like a train. 

And it’s Reno’s brand. 

I despise that I know that. 

The handicap stall door swings open, and it slams against the wall. And there’s Reno, sitting on the sill, a cigarette in his smirking mouth. Window open so the black smoke drifts outward. His playful blue eyes on me. 

“Hello there, pretty boy,” he sings; his voice like smooth whiskey. 

“What are you doin’ here?” And my voice sputters like the engine of some South Shore kid’s car. 

He looks out the window as he exhales, “Killin’ myself.”

“Well,” I walk towards the stall, “kill yourself faster; I need a ciggarette.” I lean against the door, waiting for him to finish smoking. Two people smoking would draw too much attention- I’m probably pushing my luck. But he returns to taking painfully slow drags and blows the smoke out the window dramatically, while keeping his eyes on me. 

It’s an uncomfortable silence. Like he’s waiting for me to say something. And I’m just hoping he doesn’t say anything. The sounds of birds from outside, coupled with teenagers playing in the courtyard, offer some much needed relief. But I feel the awkwardness crawling up my spine. 

“I thought you were going to be in the library during lunch?” I say deadpanned. 

“I was, but I figured you were going to be here instead,” he drawls. 

“How did you know that? You stalkin’ me or somethin’?” 

“Maybe,” he softens his smirk into a genuine smile before pulling his eyes from me and stares out the window. 

“Why?” I question, feeling my hands start to sweat. 

“I thought we covered that in my car?” 

“And I thought I said-”

“I was ‘barkin’ up the wrong tree?” he mocks my accent. He jumps off the sill, throwing his cigarette in the toilet- which is exactly what I do and it makes my stomach flip. “So, the ‘handsome fella’ bit wasn’t your shitty attempt at flirting?” 

Reno moves in front of me, close. Too close. His breath smells like tobacco and mint. And I’m hypnotized. I realize he’s just about my height. Maybe an inch taller. I can’t be sure because I’m drawn to his lips. Smooth and thin. But not too thin. And there twitching like they want to curve into a smile, but he’s fighting against that. And I wonder why I have  _ Hands Down _ by Dashboard Confessional stuck in my head. The verse singing through my head like a jackhammer. For a moment I forget where we are. The sounds of the birds and children mute. And there’s just Reno and I, and our short breaths, and the smell of nicotine. And I wonder what my name sounds like moaning from his mouth-

“I’m not into guys,” I say tentatively that I don’t even believe those words are mine. 

And I notice his eyes snap down to my pants, then back up to me. “You sure about that?”

That. fucking. Easy. Betrayed by my own brain; again. I feel this hot rage fly through me. And my eyes must have flashed because Reno takes one step back; as if afraid that I would attack. That thought, though, pushes the anger down for a minute. And I wonder what happened to him…

But I can’t.

I can’t.

I can’t.

“Fuck off-” And for a second I think of saying that word Sephiorth calls me because maybe it’ll chase him away. But I can’t bring myself to unleash those two syllables on him. Maybe because he’ll know exactly that I am completely, and utterly full of shit. Or maybe, the risk of actually hurting him is not worth the terrible reward. I push him back further with my shoulder as I walk towards the stalls window. I’m shaking. I feel myself cracking; like my entire body is shutting down. I can barely get the cigarette out of the pack, and I struggle three times to light the damn thing. And the whole time, Reno stands in silence. Watching me. When I finally inhale the smoke, I feel relief for a moment. I exhale into a sigh. Closing my eyes as the sun beats me through the window. 

“Bad experience?” His voice cracks. 

And I think,  _ what a fucking understatement _ . 

There’s a voice in my head begging me to tell him. I never told anyone, not even my therapist, and maybe I would feel better if I unloaded my entire sad story to someone who maybe understands what it feels like. To be torn in two directions. To be raised up, high on your own life, then just slammed on the ground. Crushed. Under someone else's rejection. I was too fucking young to be doing the shit I did- or am doing, I recognize that- and I’ve never been the same. I’ve been running. And I’m tired. But I plug my mouth with my cigarette. And I tell that voice to go away. 

Reno shifts behind me, his voice low. “Same…”

And my body quakes with relentless tremors. And I think my lungs are frozen from the smoke because it’s hard to breath in here. I rest my hands on the sill to steady my body and try to keep my eyes closed; because I feel the build up behind them. I wish for sunglasses. Because being a douche who wears sunglasses inside is better than being the douche that cries in the bathroom. 

Why am I even so upset? Don’t have time to unpack all of that right now; not with time ticking slowly down to gym class and Reno standing there against the stall. I figure he’s watching me smoke. And I feel like he’s seconds away from saying  _ something _ obnoxious. Or more snide flirting. Like he’s insulting me while trying to get me to kiss him. I feel my lips vibrate when I think about that. There’s part of me that...enjoys it. My trembling heart beating fast. If I really hated it, I would have left by now, right? 

But what happens when I admit that?

“Cloud…” 

And I fucking hate how soft his voice is now. Like he’s pitying me. 

I swing around and seeth, “What, Reno? What the fuck do you want from me?”

He leans against the bathroom stall, eyes on the ceiling. Looking just so aloof. Relaxed. Which contradicts the clenching of his jaw. And I notice how sharp his features- and worn. Like he’s been punched in the face a few times in his life. His eyes were almond shaped and almost perpetually narrowed, as if he constantly has sour thoughts plaguing his mind. He looked more like a villain than a charmingly leading man in a play. His uniform fits tightly along his form, and he would look put together if he didn’t insist on leaving the first two buttons unbuttoned so the world could see part of his chest and collar bones. Skin like a doll. Cracked and porcelain. 

“There!” he shouts, startling me, “You’re doing it again! You’re eye fucking me!”

My tongue suddenly feels swollen and I’m stuttering like an idiot. “W-Hat? No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” he’s grinning with his teeth like an animal set to kill. “You’ve been eye fucking me since we met.”

I look away, “I’m not eye fucking you.”

“It’s been messing with my head,” he slowly approaches me, “You say I got my gay-dar all off, and then you look at me like you want to know how I look without this uniform on.” Reno’s too close. He squeezes himself in between the door and me. I’m trapped. The only way out is to jump out the window and it’s fucking tempting. 

“You wish,” I hiss with some conviction; but he looks at me like I’m a moron. 

“Yeah, I do,” he exasperates, “That’s the whole point.”

I might have laughed. I want to. But then that would make everything he just said correct. And maybe it is- I can’t tell how my eyes look when I’m staring at someone. But I know I look at him more than necessary. 

“Um,” my cigarette burns out, waste. My eyes try to dodge his look; his eyes sparkle in the sun like two diamonds and if I look at them, I might forget for a second that I’m supposed to be playing a part. “I’m sorry. I’m not...like you...so.” I say weakly. 

“Like me?” he pretends to think, “So like, ‘really really ridiculously good-looking’? Can’t argue with that.”

I probably would have laughed if I wasn’t internally screaming in my head at how frustrating he is being. . “No. I mean, I’m not…” And the word catches in my throat. Choking me. 

“Say it,” he shifts his tone. Softer. “Say you’re not gay.” he shrugs, “and I won’t...hit on you again.”

And it should be so easy. I’ve been telling myself that for years. 

And maybe if it was anyone else making that request, the phrase would have come flying from my lips. Then I could be trapped in a false sense of freedom; that my secret is safe for another few years until another pretty boy with sad blue eyes and flame red hair stands entirely too close to me. 

I notice that I move closer to him. His back pressed up against the wood plank that connects the door to the wall. And he is ridiculously good looking, especially when he flashes those blues at me and curves his lips into a small, inviting, smile. I can’t help how I feel. I’m fighting against the urge to move in- just as I realize that my eyes are wet. Because...there’s something I want. That I can’t have. Because it’s too much for me to handle. Just another thing that separates me from being normal. 

And thankfully the bell rings, and I jump back, nearly falling into the toilet. Reno doesn’t say anything; and I refuse to look at him. I speed walk out of the bathroom, trying to catch my breath that’s been robbed from my lungs. 

* * *

Dinner tonight is Chinese food. 

Mother hasn’t gone shopping and this was all dad could get on his way home from work. 

We sit at the kitchen table. My dad reads the paper, occasionally taking bites of his Beef and Broccoli. My mother sits across from me, her head resting in her hand, which is the only barrier between her falling asleep into her wonton soup. She can barely keep herself upright. Nearly falling out of the chair several times. I push on my general tsos chicken, remembering that I haven’t really eaten a meal all day- probably something I should address, but won’t. I’m not hungry. 

“Claudia,” my dad whispers harshly when he sees her, “Go upstairs.”

She jumps up, “What..no. I’m fine. Just tired.”

My dad turns to me, and mom instantly puts her head back on her upright hand. “How’s school, Cloud.”

“Fine,” I respond. 

He doesn’t look up from his paper, “You know junior year is the most important year, right? The year colleges look at.”

“Yup.”

“Thinking about what schools you want to apply to? Fordham University is a great school. And I’m not just saying that because  _ I _ went there.”

It’s cute he thinks I have the grades to get into Fordham University. “I think it should depend on what major I want to do,” I shrug.

“Finance or business management are flexible majors,” he snaps his eyes at me. He looks confused, as if my sudden reluctance is new. I wonder if he had certain expectations for me he has yet to vocalize. And I think about how since I entered high school, this man who looks way too much like me, has not expressed a single thought on what he visualizes for my future. 

Should I mirror him? Fordham University to Columbia University, to a sweet CFO gig at an insurance company, to knocking up my college sweetheart and tucking all of us away in the wealthiest part of a white trash borough? Or maybe it’s knock up the girl and then get the job? I forget the order. I look at him, his eyes a dirty muted blue with dark circles permanently tattooed which age him at least five years, which a fake smile he pushes through his face with such conviction that he might actually believe for a minute he is happy. 

Guilt. I stab a piece of chicken. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You should think about getting in some extracurriculars. Maybe join a sport?”

I bite my lip and I swear I’m going to bleed. “I don’t know.”

“There’s more important things to do than just hanging out with your friends all the time or playing video games. Look at Sephiroth-”

I close my eyes to try to drown out whatever he’s trying to say. Like he fucking knows what Sephiroth really does outside of school- or even in school. I’m hoping for something to drag the attention from me. Like a bomb to blow up this house. 

Luckily, my mom comes through by falling out of her chair, onto the floor with a thud that rocks the house. And nervously I sputter out a laugh. 

“This isn’t funny, Cloud,” my father scolds softly, while he rushes to care for his broken wife. He’s mumbling something at her. Something I choose not to hear. Pick her up and bring her upstairs. He says he’s coming back to talk like I’ll wait for him. There’s nothing to talk about. 

Mom’s a lush. Dad’s absent. Son’s depressed. That’s the cast of this fucked story. All the money in the world and not a single healthy coping mechanism. 

I decide to be a good son and clean the table off; placing our barely touched meals into the fridge for one, or all of us, to crawl back to eventually. I shut the lights, darkness takes over the kitchen. I think about the last meal we had as a family; and realize I can’t remember. Going upstairs is out of the question, they’re going to fight. I jog downstairs to the basement which has become a kind of sanctuary for me. Down there, I can be alone and drown out the world. My guitar is still laying on the couch, the only thing that makes me genuinely happy. And my dad bitches about me not having hobbies. He has no fucking idea what I do.

I’ve been teaching myself how to play for three years. The extent of which my parents know this is my request for music books and guitar picks. I’ve been dropping hints that I want an ESP electric guitar, like James Hetfield, for Christmas. But for now, I settle with my dad’s old acoustic. I sit in the silence of the basement, on that old couch that has been in the family for decades, and start teaching myself how to play  _ Santeria _ by Sublime. It’s only one step about  _ Wonderwall _ , sure, but I could probably impress a few girls at parties with that. I have the music to the song laid out in front of me; bitterly thinking that my dad should be proud that I taught myself how to read music. I’m fingering away, singing softly along, completely engrossed in my practicing that I don’t entirely register the doorbell.

I look at the cable box- 8:00. Too late for visitors, and if Sephiroth wanted to hang out he would have called or gone through the basement entrance. I don’t move from my spot- my dad can handle the late night caller. I close my eyes and start from the beginning. The way the music flows through me, the way my voice vibrates in my throat completely free, is better than all the illegal drugs I take to numb myself. It’s the only time my lungs don’t feel like they are filled with water; that I’m drowning. And I’m feeling bold enough to suggest to Cid we start a band. But I have to get over the fear of singing in front of people. 

The creak from the staircase sends my eyes flying open. 

I snap my head towards the offending sound and there’s Reno leaning on the railing, with a perfect smile across his face. “Pretty boy plays guitar, huh? You must have tons of chicks on your dick.”

He’s not...wrong. I swallow hard. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Well, as far as your dad thinks, I’m borrowing a book for English.” He walks down the rest of the stairs, but doesn’t come closer; choosing to lean against the bannister with his arms over his chest. I realized this is the first time I’ve seen him outside of school. He’s wearing plain black sweat pants that somehow look good on his lean form, and a plain white t-shirt. He has small muscles rippling down his arms. And now I’m hyper aware that I’m probably eye fucking him again; and the look on his face confirms. 

“Why are you really here?” I ask sharply. 

“I came to apologize for...the bathroom.” He sighs. I’m shocked, but don’t say anything immediately. “I think I came on a little stronger than I wanted.” He pauses, his eyes have wilted to the floor and he runs his fingers through his messy hair “It’s just...I’ve had a pretty shit fucking year- I won’t bore you with the details- but, I was perfectly fine with keeping my head down and just trying to survive these next two years. And then I bumped into you and…” A bitter laugh escapes his lips, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” 

“Well if I knew, I wouldn’t say I don’t know right?” He says with an edge to his voice. 

“You bumped into me,” I press, “Which cool, you admit  _ you  _ bumped into  _ me  _ by the way. And then what happened?”

“Okay first off, guy, you weren’t watching where you were going. So that shits on you. You could have easily avoided me if you were more interested in where you were going instead of your shitty shoes.”

“So this,” I point to the both of us, “is my fault then?”

Reno’s arms are over his chest with a vexed look on his face. “Are you always this insufferable when someone tries apologizing to you?”

“Honestly, no one really apologizes to me. I’m usually the one doing the apologizing because I’m kind of a huge asshole.”

“At least you’re self-aware,” he rolls his eyes. That smile gone long ago; wilted into an indignant frown. “You were...upset...when you left the bathroom and that  _ obviously _ wasn’t my intention. And I thought about it more and...I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

This is the first time I’ve seen him falter. He always presents himself as confident, assured. It’s infuriating. I could never cut him down the way he effortlessly cuts me. Now he’s standing in my basement, now with his hands shoved into pockets, not daring to make eye contact. And I realize I don’t know him well. What I know is the color of his eyes, and that they reflect the sun like a kaleidoscope. I know he chews on his pens when he’s thinking and or taps them against his lips when he’s finding the right words to say. But I don’t know why he moved from Tennessee. Or how he got those muscles. Or why he even found me interesting in the first place. But I know I want to.

“I...accept your apology.” I place my guitar in its case, “It’s fine-I’m fine. It wasn’t like you jumped my dick like this chick I’m dodging did.”

He snorts, “Not into the aggressive types, huh?”

“Lately, I don’t know what my type is.” I rise from the couch and grab the school issue messenger bag. I dig through it, “Not like my dad is observant enough to realize you left without a book, but just in case.” I pull out  _ The Scarlet Letter _ , which we have the pleasure of reading this month. I walk over to him and he cautiously brings his eyes to mine like he’s afraid I’ll jump down his throat. 

I place the book against his chest, just rough enough that it rattles him, and hold it there. My eyes on his. I swear I feel his heart beating rapidly; like trying to escape. He purses his lips which makes me just slightly weak. 

“I don’t really like being pushed,” I whisper, “I tend to shut down. Defense mechanism I guess.”

“Good to know…” he reaches for the book, placing his hand over mine. I don’t move away. And it's like electricity, his fingers running along mine and I notice their rough and calloused. I don’t remember how to breathe, but I don’t feel like I’m suffocating. And I dread the moment he’s no longer touching me. But I don’t make any other moves. He grabs the book and the moment is over. And it has to be. For now.

“Maybe one day you can bore me with your story. I’ve had a pretty shitty few years too.”

I love the way he smiles.

And I can’t believe I thought that; and my chest feels like butterflies. 

“Lookin’ forward to it,” he backs up and I notice how cold it suddenly feels. “See you at school, pretty boy.”

He leaves. And I immediately want to look for a shooting star to wish him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if anyone has taken the New York City regents, but that problem comes directly from (I think) the 2002 Math B regents. I tried solving it myself and got it completely wrong. So, like Cloud, I am terrible at Math. Forever.   
> If anyone is actually good at Math, tell me how you would solve that problem because I still don't know how Reno's answer is correct.


	9. Party Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud falls into bad habits, manipulated by his puppet master.   
> Then sets fire to what bridges he has left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING/CONTENT WARNING:  
> Drug use/Drug Abuse  
> Underage drinking  
> Troubling language.   
> Homophobia.

Chapter Nine: Party Monsters

Sister Lucia stares at the class with her small black eyes narrowed in perpetual anger. Woman is rapidly approaching her eighties and I swear she’s never cracked a smile in her life. Her face wrinkled with aged frustration. Her white hair gathered tightly into a bun that pulls at her hairline, that I swear can’t be comfortable. She’s one of the nuns that doesn’t need to wear a habit- for whatever reason- but adorns the same long, pressed, brown skirt and ruffled white blouse buttoned to the neck everyday. She’s charged with teaching Religion last period and does so with all the personality of rattlesnake. 

She used to work at the elementary school that’s connected to our High School teaching third grade even though she regularly expressed her disgust with children. She ran a tight ship, often lauded by her contemporaries for her she managed her classroom. She ruled them with fear. I could hear her screeches from my room, thanking God at the time that I didn’t have to sit there and listen to her criticism. One day, as my third grade class left art class, her class approached in two perfectly straight lines. Unfortunately, Tseng Lin, who headed the boys line, took an extra step- because he was eight years old and was standing there for 5 minutes too long. With the reflexes of a viper, she snatched his neck and threw him back into the line where he collided with another student sending them both to the floor. 

By the end of the year, she was quietly moved to teaching High School Religion; a daily class which we have for the last half hour of the day. Several Holy men and women teach a class, and Sister Lucia is by far the most outspoken and vicious in her interpretation of the bible. 

And this year, she is especially enraged. As of May 17, 2004, Massachusetts became the first state to legalize gay marriage. The juniors who had her during that time recalled the epic meltdown following the announcement. Apparently, she went on a 30 minute rant which foretold the end of the United States as we know it. That this would start a domino effect, engulfing the country in the gay agenda, turning all the children into sinners. Our souls are damned. 

By September, her fears had not been quelled. George Bush’s Federal Marriage Amendment was being bounced around the Senate. If passed, it would legally define marriage as between one man and one woman. Sister Lucia was “proud of our president for taking a stand against the injustice against the Catholic community.” But her confidence that the bill would be passed with flying colors was slowly dwindling. 

Triggering, I suppose. 

In Religion, we sit in a U-shape like in English, with Sister Lucia in the front lecturing the class on bible passages and interpretation. I’m not sure the goal to any of this, except to continue to slam Roman Catholicism down our throats. I sit in the back, Sephiroth picked a seat next to me on my left and, of course, Reno just happened to sit next to me on the right. I can’t exactly recall if I was in the class first when he chose his seat, or maybe I betrayed myself by picking my own seat next to him. But it had been a strange few weeks sandwiched in between two obnoxious class clowns who mumbled insults towards Sister Lucia- and on more than one occasion I’ve been accosted for laughing. 

Today, no different. She’s losing her mind in front of the class. Pacing back and forth, waving the black leather bible in the air like a caricature of the insane Religious zealot. 

“The founding fathers are rolling in their graves,” she seethes, and I see the veins in her neck about the rupture. “Homosexuality is an abomination.”

How many times have I heard that before? 

I hear Reno click his tongue as if forgetting himself. He’s slouched in his seat, with his head resting on his balled fist resting on the armrest of the desk. I side eye him, trying not to be noticed, and see his face fighting against instinct.

These words cut. 

“Perverts are taking over America like a wave. If we don’t draw a line in the sand, where will it end?”

Cliches waterfall from her mouth like rigorously practiced lines. She’s been in this fight before. Reciting everything I’ve read from online forums run by lesser people. The Bible is the law of the land; a land slowly falling into the cracks of hell. 

Someone- one of the jocks with a head filled with empty space- shouts: “It’s Adam and Eve not  _ Adam and Steve _ .”

And almost everyone laughs. 

Reno shifts in his seat which grabs my attention. “Some choice porn may disagree.” He whispers low enough that his words are eaten by the chorus of chuckles and Sister’s commands for attention- and only his voice tickles my ear.

I accidentally let out a strangled laugh and Sister Lucia sets your lasers on me. “Something amusing, Mr. Strife?”

Her beady black eyes are welled with judgement. Like she can smell something on me. Usually, under these circumstances, I’d have some snappy comeback. A reminder that she expects the law of the United States to be based on a collection of stories written thousands of years ago. I could mention the founding fathers were for the separation of church and state. I can remind her that homosexuality predates Christianity; so God waited a long time to get mad about it. I could tell her all the bible verses that condemn everything modern American loves. And I can remind her all the bible verses that condone incest and sex with a minor. 

But she’s a roadblock. A stone wall. 

And I’m outnumbered here. So the only outcome to this argument is the multitude of eyes staring at me will linger just half a second longer and wonder if certain rumors are true. 

But, “This whole class amuses me,” I mock. 

Her beady black eyes flash with their typical fury. And just when she opens her mouth to unleash her venom laced homily, a cautious hand from the front of the room slowly rises. I snap my eyes towards the brave individual, even though I know I’m just hurting myself at this point, because Aerith merely glaces in my direction with a sour look upon her face before returning her unyielding green eyes to Sister Lucia. 

“Sister Lucia,” the soft voice steals the attention off me, “if I may...I feel you are bordering on insulting.” Her voice contradicts the confidence in her statement. Calm. Almost meek. But the ends edge with a warning tone that Sister Lucia either doesn’t pick up on, or cares. She’s the force in the front of the classroom- this is her stage, and we at the mercy of her biting mouth. 

“Excuse me, Ms. Gainsborough? Insulting to  _ who _ exactly?”

It feels like a bomb about to go off. “Well,” she shifts in her seat, suddenly under the pressure of Sister Lucia’s crushing gaze, “You said the founding fathers would be rolling in their graves, but it clearly states in the Declaration of Independence ‘ that all men are created equal’ and ‘that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.’ I believe that extends to the community that you are currently denouncing…”

“It says all  _ men, _ ” Sephiroth shouts from the back of the class, emphasizing the final word. His mouth curved into a snarling smile. Aerith snaps her head towards him, suddenly flush with uncharacteristic anger. “Not all women or girly men.” 

“Sephiroth, you’re  _ barely _ a man, so shut your mouth,” she bites back. 

He’s about to open his mouth to retaliate when Reno pipes up next to me with a loud laugh that momentarily takes the hazel-eyed boys attention from Aerith. “And what the hell are you laughing at, bro?”

Reno sits up to get a better view of the angry boy to my left. His eyes sparkling with a comeback, smirking, and simply responding: “You.”

“Do I even know you?” Sephiroth jumps out of his seat to lean over me and get threateningly close to the redhead- who responds by shaking his head at this display of toxic masculinity.. He’s overreacting. Obviously. But this is exactly the reaction I expect when someone challenges his manhood. As if Aerith’s snide comment warranted this aggressive performance; it didn’t.

“Keep running your mouth and I’m sure you and I will be  _ well acquainted. _ ” Reno remains in his seat; his voice even and calm, but with an air of a threat hanging thick in the air. And I’m about to wonder if I will have to somehow get in the middle of this ridiculous display, until

Sister Lucia slams a ruler against the desk- the sound piercing through the air like a crack of thunder. Everyone sits at attention, even Sephiroth slinks down to his seat, though never taking his eyes off Reno. 

“That is enough! Look at you all. Disgraceful!” She shrieks, “Open your bibles, everyone, and for the rest of the period copy Leviticus 20:13 until your hands fall off.” She breathes heavily at the front of the class like a bull looking for a clown to challenge her stance. Everyone silently complied with the ridiculously demand. She turned back to Aerith. “And Ms. Gainsborough, I want to see you after class.”

Aerith with her large green eyes and face permanently tattooed with concern looked positively defeated. Even though Sephiroth and Reno were the two who were ready to fist fight in the middle of the class, and even though technically I started this terrible domino effect, Aerith would be the one to shoulder the consequences. Her eyes wilt to her notebook, sadness evident. She is a woman, in the Religion that shames them into compliance, so her outburst became the worse offense. And I, as a man, should have exercised my own privilege and defended her.

But my tongue feels swollen in my mouth. 

And I notice my heart slamming against my ribcage like it wants to escape. 

My palms are wet on the desk when I remove them to grab my pen and open the Bible on my desk. I feel eyes on me. Crawling up my spine. 

Sephiroth grumbles next to me about the injustice that just occurred against him.

And I turn to Reno subtly; and his blue eyes are focused on the passage but his hand seems frozen over the paper; clutching his pen with a trembling hand threatening to break it in half. I feel his leg shaking at the same rhythm as mine. 

He moves his eyes to mine. And much like the first day, we are staring into each other in the open; but this time he looks tired. Eyes cracked with frustration that our mouths are stapled shut. 

We break the contact and I look at the verse in black and white. My pen also frozen over the blue lines of my notebook. Try to swallow what I have of my dignity and write: 

“ "If a man lies with a man as one lies with woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.”

**  
  
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As we exited Religion, Sister Lucia called us a “Godless generation.” 

I thought,  _ no shit _ . 

But doesn’t that say more about Him than us? 

Everyone left that class clearly vexed. Some for the right reasons, though most bitched about having to imagine two guys in bed together. And I wonder if I am witnessing another group of individuals brought up to be as ignorant as the generation before. 

We’ve been godless for a while. 

But Friday afternoon freedom becomes a welcomed embrace and I try to pull my mind from what transpired. Sephiroth seems to have also forgotten about the fight with Reno, because he’s barely out of the building when he starts in on the Friday night plans. Apparently there’s a party at this kid Johnny’s house that no one really likes, but his father abandoned him and his mother passed away so he has a small two floor house all to himself. Johnny tries too hard to be friends with the kids in the wealthy neighborhoods, always surrounding himself with an entourage of people who secretly mock him the moment his back turns. He attended New Dorp with the rest of the Tifa’s crew, but dropped out a year ago to “work” to pay the bills, but any money he makes goes straight to hosting rowdy parties and buying drugs. And I could maybe forgive that, really, the kid is seventeen and trying to survive unrelenting circumstances; but he is also annoying. Constantly in everyone’s face begging for attention. The  _ Wonderwall _ guy. The  _ Third Eye Blind _ guy that girls feel is sensitive enough to be attractive, but he frequently oversteps boundaries to the point of concern. And with a clear alcohol problem where he drinks to black out and does some insane  _ Jackass  _ style antic to get respect from the boys.

Who don’t respect him and never will. 

Who use his unique situation to their advantage; to always have a house on the island to destroy. But he’s an easy target. And sometimes it’s hard to respect someone with no respect for themselves. 

Sephiroth and I are guilty of exploiting him. But I am not exactly trying to go to his house, but he persists the entire ride home about how we deserve a wild night. I’m not sure if deserving is the correct world- what exactly have we done but party every weekend to some capacity? He always acts like we don’t have any options. “There’s nothing to do on this island.” And he’s not wrong, but there’s always some kid, with neglectful parents, who has an open house. You can spit anywhere on this fourteen miles of shit and there’s a group of underage kids partaking in mass destruction of their brain cells. 

He grumbles about how everyone is becoming boring now. 

“Well, I’ll see what the rest of the guys want to do,” I shrug.

“Nah, chill,” he pulls the car in front of my house. “Don’t invite them.”

I arch an eyebrow, “How am I not going to invite Cid and Barret? They probably already know; Johnny always invites them to the parties. He thinks they’ll bring more girls.”

“Because I told him not to when he called me,” he says darkly. His eyes were narrowed with mischief written on his face, and there’s only one reason why he wouldn’t want our two best friends at a party. “I need you to push-”

“Nope,” I shake my head, “I am not pushing drugs for you.”

“Cloud, stop being a fucking pussy.”

“Why can’t you do it, huh?” I question, knowing the bullshit answer that dangles on his smirking lips. 

He looks positively devilish under the muted light of the care. The whole day was overcast with the threats of rain; the musty humid summer still wrapping her nails around our throats refusing to leave. Seems like summer mistakes also have a nasty habit of lingering entirely too long. He sits there with a smile, a dangerous one. One that contradicts the way his eyes press into me like he knows he will win this argument. “Apparently, I’m too intimidating,” he manipulates, “girls think you’re a nice guy. They feel more comfortable going to you.”

I roll my eyes, “Bullshit.”

“Look,” his voice edges, “it’s just a little xanax. Ten dollars a pill and, what, fifty pills. That’s nothing. Sell them in bulk or something.”

“50/50?”

“Fuck you, 50/50. I’m the one providing it-”

“And I am the one risking my ass selling it. What if we get caught? Who goes to jail? You or me?” Cause he knows I wouldn’t snitch. This is New York. Snitches get stitches. 

“Who’s getting caught? We know everyone at this party. No one’s fucking talking to anyone.” He pushes.

I close my eyes and weakly shake my head at his ridiculous, insensitive, request. We had this conversation the day after my birthday. The day after everything flipped upside down. Where a girl, who I don’t remember, whose name never left my lips, ended up in the hospital when she took one too many xanny sticks and drank one too many beers. And I was too busy mixing actual prescribed medication that I needed, with alcohol despite the warnings on the label, to register or care or even shed a tear. And I have no idea what happened to her after someone pushed her into a car and dropped her off at Staten Island University hospital and left her there. But those were my pills he crushed up to create the bar. And it was me who took her money in the darkness of the woods next to the bonfire. 

“Five hundred dollars doesn’t seem worth the trouble.” I feel sick. My head clouded like I’m hungover. Bile crawling up my throat. 

“It’s not unless-” and I dread the next words, “You want to contribute.”

“Fuck you, bro,” I snap, “I got nothing.”

“Come on, your mom takes, what oxycontin now? Vicodin? What about all the shit you were on.”

“Oh, yeah, everyone wants to get high on prozac now?  **_Now_ ** that’s what all the cool fucking kids are doing?” I feel hot. Burning. Rage. itch my skin. 

He slouches in his seat, face softens. He knows he crossed a line. “Alight, calm down. We’ll do 50/50, that’s 250 each. Not bad for one day of work, huh?”

“Why do we even need to do this,” I say dejectedly, looking out the closed passenger window at the entirely too big house that is more than anyone who lives there deserves. The perfectly manicured lawn. My mom’s car outside the garage- a white Ford Explorer- that only sees the streets of Staten Island when she’s buying more alcohol. I am the opposite of desperate for money, and Sephiroth is even more well off.

“Come on, Cloud,” he grumbles, “Genesis has a shrooms connection, Rufus Shinra is selling x. Everyone is doing this shit. It’s not a big deal.”

“Whatever,” I open the door, never looking at him, “let me know when you’re getting me.”

I slam the door and bite my lip as I hear the tires of his car scream down the block. He’s pissed for the moment. Only the moment. Because once he picks me up and shoves the baggies of pills in my hand, he’ll be all smiles and words of encouragement. And it will not even phase him in the least bit, because he gets to play beer pong with all his friends, while I sit in some seedy corner of the room and wait for people to drop a code word. It’s my soul stolen with every exchange. 

Between what happened at school and this...I feel tight. Like I’m wound up about the break. Hard to catch my fleeting breath; and the humidity feels like a haze even as I enter the air conditioned home. I hang my head low and try to b-line for the staircase, but I smell cigarette smoke from the kitchen and my mother’s voice momentarily breaks through the curtain. 

“Cloud?” She calls, I poke my head from around the living room. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall with a blank expression on her face. Her hair up in a loose bun, and this time she’s wearing a pair of running shorts and a tank top. A bottle of vodka glistens next to the ashtray. And my mouth feels dry. “How was school, sweetheart?”

“Fine.” I lie. She takes a drag and blows black smoke tainting the white walls. My dad will lose his mind if he walks in and smells the sins being committed. “I’m sleeping over Sephiroth’s house tonight, by the way.”

“Okay,” she grumbles, “I’ll just be here. Alone.”

I’m not sure if this is some pathetic guilt trip, but I don’t engage. She’s going to be passed out before eight p.m anyway, so I don’t know who she’s kidding. I sprint up the stairs to my room to take off this straightjacket called a uniform. My legs feel like they are stuck with pins and needles. And that if I decide to stop moving they are going to cut open and I’ll lose all ability to walk. It’s not logical. But this sudden wave of urgency cracks over my body like a Tsunami. Two hundred and fifty dollars is not worth the risk. But instead of just standing up for myself- calling Sephiroth and telling him to fuck off- I find myself in a blink of an eye digging through my parents medicine cabinet. Under the sink. Ripping out the contents, trying to find something else to sell. Because disappointing Sephiroth can not be an option. 

I eye an orange bottle in the back of the sink and snatch it with sweaty palms. 

Vicodin. 

How did he know that?

Mom had surgery last year. They must have prescribed it for her. I open up the bottle- six white pills. If I jack up the price, I could make a little extra. Not like Johnny and his friends would know the difference? And if half of our school is there, what’s twenty-five dollars a pill to them? 

Guilt. Again. A voice reminding me of what’s wrong with this picture, 

But I can’t stop moving. If I really sit there, on the floor of my parents bathroom, and think about what I am about to do-

I speed walk to my room, which has its own private bathroom. I open the bottom of my sink now, and I don’t have to tear it apart because I know exactly where I left them. Untouched. The last of the prescription. On an orange bottle my name appears. With the dosage of one pill a day. 

My therapist warned me of the side effects. She warned my parents of the side effects. She implored them to monitor me and make sure I was taking them as prescribed. But they dropped the ball. Or maybe I should have been more mature. But it’s hard to remain steadfast in treatment when your best friend finds the pills in your bathroom-

I close my eyes to try to calm myself. But the shirt I changed into when I got here is already covered in sweat. And now that I’m sitting on the cold tiles floor of my bathroom, my legs are shaking as if threatening to shatter.

My therapist told me that talk therapy only works if we are both honest with each other. And I needed to want to be helped. And I lied. Immediately. 

She was the last in a long line. Four? In two years? I always had a complaint. Or a reason not to go. That my medication made me sick. And I couldn’t eat. Or sleep. Or feel anything. Or felt too much. I never gave it a chance. Because it was embarrassing to tell your friends you can’t hang out because you have to go talk about your failing life to someone. And it’s embarrassing to have to rely on medication so your brain doesn’t trick you into cutting your life short. And it didn’t matter that three out of four close friends, and one encouraging girlfriend, never wavered in their support. That one friend. That one time. With a gross smile on his lips as he shook the orange bottle. And asked me if I was a freak.

Because people think you're a freak when you need medication to keep you sane.

But a god when you sell them the same medication to get them high. 

That’s where this whole thing started. It started with prozac. Then I went to xanax after I was weaned off prozac because the side effects were too intense. And then Sephiroth made money off my illness. Until I put a stop to everything, all together. 

And she warned me about that too. And warned me that once I am off one drug, I shouldn’t go back on until I talk with her. But she’s no longer around- she moved. She left  _ me _ . And even though she signed a referral. And grabbed my hand on the last day and apologized. I thought she was full of it. We never took that referral. 

I lean against the chilled bathroom and roll the bottle in my hands. And I feel both like cracked stone. And glass. Choking on my insecurities. Toil words through my head that pierce. And I pop open the bottle and break another promise to myself- because in the moment the alternative seemed more appealing. 

* * *

Sephiroth shoots me a pleased smile when I show him the six pills. He tells me to drive the price up to fifty and see what happens. And to push the price of the xanax to fifteen. Who knows the difference? And I’m too relaxed in the air conditioned car to really argue with him. We park on Johnny’s block, a dead end street near New Dorp beach. He lives in a tiny blue, two story house that used to be used as a beach bungalow for vacationing Brooklynites in the fifties and sixties. Now lower-middle class housing. 

The street is dark. The other houses on the block have maybe one or two lights on. But we try to be quiet- people in this area are nosey and I am not trying to run from cops carrying enough pills that could be looked at as intent to sell. 

“If they want xan,” I start, whispering just in case, “They ask me if I want to play  _ football _ tomorrow. And if they want the vicodin, they have to ask me the price of bananas.”

Sephiroth snorts, “Aight Tony Montana. It ain’t that serious.”

I glare at him, “ _ I’m _ serious. I’ll be outside with my beer.”

“You don’t want to mingle? There’s probably going to be mad chicks there.”

The logical side of me was at war with the current apathy. I wanted to be as far away from people as possible. The shere idea of even talking to a girl, kissing a girl, touching a girl, made my stomach plummet to the ground. Like their hands and mouth were poison. 

The lights are all one in Johnny’s house. Some people are sitting on the stoop smoking cigarettes- I recognize Leslie, who did two months in juvi last year and dropped out of New Dorp as well, we shake hands and his eyes sparkle as if he can smell the drugs on me. “You’re lookin’ blue, Strife?” he sings. 

“Naw, but I’m down for football later.”

He nods and turns to his comrade, I guess to discuss the invitation. 

Johnny’s house bursts at the seams with people. Nearly everyone from our school and a few public school drop outs cover every inch of the small abode. I scan the area for people I may know who are associated with Cid and Barrett. None of the football players nor wrestlers are here, which is a good sign. I see Reeve who is trying to, literally, clean up beer bottles around the house as if he owns the place. Tseng leans against the fireplace, on his phone, looking absolutely bored without his master ordering him around. All the girls one would expect at a party like this, Scarlet with her boobs, Cissnei and Elena who giggle in the corner when Sephiroth and I walk in. I hear Johnny shouting and laughing somewhere in the house, probably upstairs getting his guitar so he can place the same three songs he rotates. We push through the kitchen, where Sephiroth immediately finds Angeal and Genesis. 

All three give each other over enthused handshakes. The three buddies have been friends since Sephiroth joined the baseball team freshman year; and often come as a trio. A packaged deal. Angeal is a gruff, silent, no-nonsense type, who usually attempts to treat me with an ounce of respect. Genesis of perpetual boredom, never gives me a second look. He laments on how boring this party is, there’s not enough girls, not enough drugs. Sephiroth makes it a point to drop excessive hints about our slickdeals. But Genesis rolls his eyes. 

I hear an eruption of excitement behind me. There’s a beer pong table on the far end of the kitchen. On one side, Loz and Yazoo- also on the baseball team- are yelling at each other for missing a shot. I scan the length of the pong table; covered in sticky beer already with abandoned cups tipped over. And on the other side, mocking their opponents: Rude and Reno.

I catch my breath that threatens to fleet. Second time I’ve seen him outside of school and outside of that uniform. He’s wearing a New York Yankee hat, with his wild red hair sticking out, that covers his eyes. But he’s one of the few people who can pull off a cap; and my eyes stick to his face like glue. And I wonder if this is a new side effect. Of not wanting to pull away despite the danger of lingering just a second too long. 

And as if feeling my eyes press into him, Reno looks at me and a smile tugs at his lips before he returns to trash-taking Yazoo. 

“Who’s that faggot with the red hair?” Sephiroth’s voice momentarily breaks through the crowd. 

And completely absentmindedly I answer him, “Reno…”

“You  _ know _ that guy,” his voice filled with accusations and I blink a few times before looking at him. His eyes dance around me with confusion. 

“Yeah, he’s in my track,” I respond as neutral as possible, “We have a lot of the same classes.”

“Reno Sinclair right?” Angeal asks, “I think he’s going to join the team this year. Apparently he was really good at his old school.”

“Fuck that,” Sephiroth spats, “That guys a pussy.”

I know...no one is looking at me; but I suddenly feel extremely judged under Sephiroth’s side glares. I grab a couple of beers from the fridge. “I’ll be outside if anyone needs me.”

“No one needs you, Strife,” Genesis mumbles and Sephiroth’s cruel laughter follows me out the door. 

Once outside, I feel like I can breathe again. The night has cooled down the island, and a welcoming warm breeze rushes through the backyard. I hear the sounds of crickets fading into the distance as they prepare for their inevitable death at the hands of winter. I find my seat next to a glass outside table littered with leaves and old beer bottles and settle in for hours staring into the ink black sky and the few twinkling stars that push through the light pollution. There’s a few scattered people outside, their conversations low, crushed under the excitement in the kitchen. My phone vibrates in my pocket- Cid probably. Or Tifa. Or Jessie, whose texts had turned passive aggressive at my cold shoulder. 

A few people approach me during the night. Leslie first. His eyes perking up when I mention the vicodin. Scarlet follows, throwing herself on my lap and wrapping her slender arms around my neck. She whispers into my ear, her hot breath promising suggestive alternatives to money. But I rebuke her. “Aren’t you Rufus’ play thing now?” And she pulls away, her face contorts into disgust before she throws the money in my face and calls me an asshole. Some nameless faces I’ve seen at parties try to argue with me on the code names I chose. Like this was at any point, up for debate. I steal a few more beers from time to time, passing through the kitchen where Reno and Rude still hold down the beer pong table, and manage to convince two girls they should do strip pong instead. Sephiroth hardly acknowledges me, taking refuge in the living room, dangerously flirting with Scarlet now. 

The house is a coffin. Suffocating. I am out of place. I am an imposter and everyone there can smell it on me. I don’t dress like them. I don’t act like them. I just sit there, with the drugs they want, and that’s the only reason why I am even allowed to exist in their company. I remain outside, taking a few more sips from a beer that warms in the palm of my hand. My mind a blank slate, just recalling minute details around me to keep my eyes from drifting shut. That’s another rule broken; mixing. 

Someone approaches me and I don’t bother to acknowledge their presence until her voice hits me like a sledgehammer. “I see you are back to your bad habits.” Her words are sour sweet. 

I momentarily look at Aerith, standing next to my chair in a pink skirt that’s too short, and her white henley top with “Hollister” across her chest. Her hands on her hips and brown hair tied in a loose ponytail so I can see how every line in her face looks disappointed with me. 

“Not really your problem anymore,” I respond blankley, moving my eyes away to look into the forest behind Johnny’s house. 

“You’re not like this,” her tone brimming with sadness.

“What do you know about what I’m like?” I feel myself start to unravel.

“I don’t know why you let him control you. He’s not a good person, Cloud.” 

At the mention of  _ him,  _ I slam the beer bottle on the table with enough force that it’s possible I cracked the glass table. She jumps back as I rise from my seat to push past her. Instead she grabs my arm softly, and squeezes as if trying to comfort the rage that boils. “Cloud,” she pleads, “why won’t you talk to me?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I push her hand away. “I know what happened.”

“Do you? Or do you know what Sephiroth told you,” she hisses as if his name is poison on her lips. “You just believe him so easily, even though everyone agrees that what  _ he did _ was wrong. But you won’t listen to anyone! Not even me.” Her eyes soften, pleading, “Why won’t you let me defend myself? What he did-”

“You know, I don’t see my best friend’s dick in your mouth so why is it still moving?”

There’s three people outside and their conversations come to a screeching halt. Aerith’s green eyes brim with tears, absolutely wide and horrified by what reached her ears. And I feel myself about to follow up with another vulgar display, but she beats me when her hand slaps me across my face with such force that it sobers me up. The tingles that follow along my cheek throb like tiny needles repeatedly stabbing me. 

She scans my face for some kind of remorse, but I just bite my lip and take a sharp breath to hold back whatever pure animal wants to be unleashed. Then, fuming through gritted teeth, she attacks: “I know what you are, Cloud. And I know you sold me out to save yourself. I was okay with that because I thought, deep down, underneath this asshole act you put on, that you were a good person. But now I see. It’s not an act. You’re just like him...a Sephiroth clone.” 

Aerith storms inside, ripping open the screen door that it half breaks off its hinges. I see everyone in the kitchen looking at me with confusion then erupting into laughter. Clapping for her monumental display of revenge that I know is justified. And that knowledge claws at my insides making me feel absolutely light headed, and sick. I stomp inside the house, everyone taking their own mocking jabs at me as I push past them. I see her one last time, by the front door, asking Tseng for a ride home through tears; him putting his arm around her as he guides her out, and throwing me one last narrowed glare as they both leave. 

I charge for the upstairs bathroom, not sure if I am going to punch the wall or break down. This has been coming all day. And the drugs only kept it at bay until I screwed it with alcohol. Now I am two people. Battling with each other. I burst through the door, slamming it, and locking it even thought I know no one will come in- because Johnny’s sister committed suicide in this bathroom and they are convinced that it’s haunted.

And I remember one day this summer when Jessie and Yuffie took triple Cs in this bathroom to try to communicate with her spirit. And they started hallucinating, and tearing at their skin with their nails, and it took me, Cid, and Barret to pin them down to stop. Jessie laughed the whole time, as blood trickled down her arms, and chanting songs she thought his sister would like to hear.

And I remember how fucked that scene looked. 

And how I would never let my friends do this again. 

And I lied to myself and I lied to them. 

I splash water on my face and force myself to look at the mirror. 

The girls claimed they saw the ghost of Johnny’s sister. All I see is what’s left of me. 

And it’s hard to be faced with yourself and your shitty behavior. I know it's so much easier to ignore. 

The bathroom lights flicker, and I take that as a sign that his sister doesn’t want a hypocrite failure occupying her space. I leave, not sure if I should go back to my space in the dark backyard, or hide in one of the rooms until I can leave. A tap on my shoulder nearly sends my soul back to God. I swing around and I’m face to face with Johnny, which smiles from cheek to cheek, as if blissfully unaware of anything wrong. 

“Wassup bro! I’ve been lookin’ fo you!” He exclaims. “I heard you got xana-”

“Shut.the.fuck.up.” I growl, “Don’t say the actual word, idiot, have you never done this before?”

“Oh right,” he whispers, “can I have, uh…”

I roll my eyes, “20 dollars each.”

“What? I thought it ten, bro! Come on,” his whine pierces my brain. 

“It’ll be 25 if you don’t stop.”

Grumbling out a number 4, he pulls out the money and we complete the exchange. “See ya downstairs, bro!” 

And as I watch him jog down the stairs to share his bounty with one of the unfortunate girls, I tell myself he’s the last one. For the night and for the rest of my life. The small time money is not worth the crushing guilt. 

Eyes on me. 

I turn around slowly, half thinking I’ll see a ghost, but instead I am met with the judgemental stare from underneath a Yankee cap. Reno leans against the wall across the bathroom, and my stomach quakes at the thought he followed me up here...concerned? But he witnessed that transaction, and I can tell that something has changed.

“What are you looking at?” I snap. 

“Just wondering why a guy who lives on Todt Hill needs to price gouge the guy living in this dump.”

“Mind your own fucking business already.” I feel the line between my brain and mouth severe. And I am tired of everyone’s opinions of me. My parents, and my friends, and especially this guy, who I barely know, who decided to inject himself into my space for no other reason than to trick me into admitting parts of myself he has not earned. “Stop standing here acting like you know a god damn thing about me. You know  _ nothing _ .”

“I know you’re being really sensitive right now cause your girl called you out in front of everyone,” he shrugs, “I know you are trying entirely too hard to put on a show. And that you don’t know who the fuck you are, really, so its eatin’ you alive. Or, that you know exactly what you are and you can’t stand to look at yourself in the mirror- close?”

My breathing turns rapid and he doesn’t look amuse. Which flushes my cheeks with hot rage. And I’m close to setting fire to another bridge before it’s been built. “Yeah, well, I know what  _ you are _ . And what’s keeping me from saying anything?”

That gets his attention; he stands up straight and his fist clenches. His voice calm, but stern. “Because outing someone is probably the shittiest thing you can do; and I don’t think you are that much of a shitty person, despite what everyone says about you behind your back.”

“Well then listen to me, back the fuck off my dick. I am not a f-fag,” and I sputter through that word as I weaponize it only to hurt myself; as it stabs my lips. And I’m not looking at Reno, but I continue because I need to protect myself. “You come near me again, I’ll fuck you up and tell everyone how you like it up the ass.”

And I try to walk away as fast as possible, because every.single.word out of my toxic mouth feels like cardboard. Fake. Just parroting what I’ve heard others say when they want to hurt someone. But as I go to take a step off the stairs, half hoping I would fall and break my neck, I’m suddenly dragged from the stairs,

Shoved into a bedroom, 

Up against the wall, and Reno has his arm pressed against my throat cutting off the air supply. And his eyes are fire. And he’s close enough that I can feel our bodies touch; and I realize for a lightning bolt of a moment that I wish this isn’t happening this way. That he isn’t looking at me filled with hot anger. 

“You breathe a word about me, to anyone, and I will literally kill you. I mean that. I am not being figurative. I will literally murder the shit out of you. I can get away with it too, believe me. I doubt anyone would fucking miss you. So don’t fuck with me.” He releases me and I try to hide the fact that I desperately need air. “And I’m a top, by the way.” 

And he walks out the door, mumbling how I’m a pussy. 

And I am. 

I’m weak.

Because I feel all the anxiety I have been suppressing rise up and I want to collapse on the floor and unleash everything I’ve been holding back. But that would just be so poetic, to have a breakdown in this abandoned bedroom. Surrounded by enemies. 

So I break one last rule, and dip into my own stash, and let medication hold me together. 

* * *

I spend the rest of the night sitting outside, away from the rest of the party. I managed to leave the upstairs and make my way out only encountering some laughs in my direction and amused looks. I grabbed three beers from the fridge and proceeded to drown myself. 

In and out.

Not a pure blackout. 

I chain smoke until my throat's raw. 

Hopefully robbing me of the voice I’ve used recklessly. 

Some customers attempt to engage me, but I brush them off. Knowing they would whine Sephiroth. No longer completely conscious to care. 

I check my phone. Four missed calls. Handful of texts. 

Cid comparing me to women’s genitals. 

Barret calling me a bitch.

Jessie questioning my whereabouts. 

Finally, Tifa accusing me of making her friend cry. 

That’s some superpower- pissing people off from miles away. 

The scenery begins to sway and my mind is muffled.

Muted. 

And I finish my final beer and the forest starts to twist. Everything vibrates. Hot simmering heat flushes my cheeks, stings my eyes, and I crave my bed and to be unconscious. 

I hear the broken screen door open and close. And footsteps approach. 

And I blink three times, trying to focus my eyes. Double vision finally connects. 

And Reno sits against the dirty glass table, arms over his chest, and I admire how good they look in the white t-shirt that hugs his body. And I chuckle at my whole mind being one long contradiction. 

“Man, you look like absolute shit right now,” he shakes his head. 

“This isn’t even my final form,” I snicker, “It could be so much worse.”

“You seem proud?”

My eyes fall close for a minute as I try to center myself. “Trust me, I’m not proud of anything I am.”

I think about the words he said to me and wonder if he could keep that promise. Finish what I started. He’s right, no one would miss me. Reno’s eyes are hidden underneath his hair and hat, and I want to reach over and see this wistful blues. I wish I knew what toiled through his head. If he’s thinking about my own words. Did they hurt?

My voice splinters, “I’m sorry for what I said...I would never do that to you. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just so fucking confused.”

I’m in between laughing and falling apart. Taking a sharp breath and shaking my head at the words still lodged in my throat. And then I feel hands in my hair, steading my head. Now he’s close enough that I can see his eyes and they are frozen on mine. 

And I don’t even care that his fingers fall from my blonde locks, down my face. Whispering, “Hey, Strife, I get it,” his voice full with understanding, “I know what it’s like.”

“I really don’t want you to hate me,” I admit, and one weight falls off my shoulder. 

He smiles back, “Eh, I don’t hate you. I think you’re kind of a jackass, though.”

I move into his touch because I don’t want it to end, and he lingers for a moment. “Do you,” he starts, his eyebrows knitting together, “really want me to stay away.”

“No,” I respond quickly, because I can’t even consider the thought and I need to be sure of something for once. 

“Alrighty then,” he slaps my face gently. “You look real fucked up, yo.”

“Yeah…”

“Took too much?”

I nod, ashamed. 

“Shouldn’t be dippin into your own stash.”

I try to laugh but it doesn’t work. My eyes start to quake as they struggle to stay focused enough to continue this conversation. 

“Come on, I’ll take you home pretty boy.” 

The offer is appealing. “I should wait for Sephiroth...we came together.”

“Uh right, he left a while ago. Actually, almost everyone’s gone. It’s just Johnny playing shitty guitar and a few drunk girls.”

“Of course he left me…” I don’t know what I was expecting. He didn’t even bother to come outside to find me and make sure I was okay. They probably walked to Mike’s Place Diner on New Dorp Lane to eat; completely forgetting about me. 

“Yeah, he’s a prick.” Reno grabs my wrists and pulls me to my unsteady feet. He guides me out through the side of the house- I guess to avoid any more stares from the few remaining people in the house- with his hand on my back. 

That lingers for a moment.

Then glides down my spine as we walk in silence, and I can’t help the smile that forms on my face; because I decide to chase this euphoria that’s so different from the artificial one I crawl back to time and time again. 

He drops his hand next to mine as we walk down the dark street, leaving the ghost of the party behind. Our knuckles grazing against each other.

The smell of sea air.

The black night cracked by the light of the full moon. 

And it feels like we are the only two souls on this island.

So I take a risk and link one finger with his…

And he doesn’t pull away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really difficult chapter to write, as I am pulling from my own experiences/experiences my friends faced during high school. Some of the events mentioned are inspired by true stories. 
> 
> And if you are finding Cloud hard to like, I guess I am doing my job. We were all part of the problem back then. 
> 
> Further more, I want to stress that I am for taking prescription medication if that's what someone needs to help them. Cloud's relationship with his medication does not reflect my views. I am writing from the POV of a struggling sixteen year old child who unfortunately is manipulated by someone with a larger personality. When I first wrote Cherry Soda Boy, I was accused by a reader for forcing my views on to my interpretation of Cloud- so I just want to stress that while there is a lot of "inspired by true events" happening here, these are still fictional characters and a fictional story, and not everything I write I agree with. It's like saying the author of American Psycho believed killing people was a good idea. 
> 
> ONE MORE THING: Definitely there are different street names for drugs, I used the ones I was exposed to back then. The prices may be wonky because I never actually bought the stuff. (some people gave them out for free if you were close enough).


	10. Cloud 1:02-1:15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud and Reno's creation story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my husband who I use as a model to help me describe certain actions. and for just being super supportive of me spending my time writing fanfiction.

**Chapter Ten: Cloud 1:02-1:15**

And just like that, Sephiroth refuses to speak to me.

After abandoning me at the party, he shows up to my house to talk business. Criticizing shutting everything down early- with three vicodin left and two xanax. 

He demands all the money.

Chastises me while I’m laying on my basement couch trying not to vomit. 

Never once asking me how I made it home.

Of if I am okay. 

So I threw all the money at him. Watch his eyes morph to rage, wait for him to take his pent up anger out on my face. 

Instead he grabs what he can and storms out the house. Radio silence since. 

And I find myself breathing a sigh of relief every moment his name doesn’t appear on my phone. 

I text Aerith to apologize for my words, but she doesn’t answer and I don’t blame her. I should have apologized two months ago. Or at least give her a space to express her version of the events that unfolded on my birthday. If I want to rebuild that bridge, it’s going to take a lot of blood and sweat. 

My other friends are more forgiving and welcome me back with open arms. They do probe me with accusing questions and I repay them with lies ( _I thought you knew about the party?)_ and half truths ( _The party sucked anyway)_ and omissions of guilt. And they finally forget my transgressions when I spoil them all with a trip to Wendys. Except Jessie, who I figure has decided to avoid me, but Tifa has been tight lipped about her. Barret, Cid, Tifa, Vinny, and I spend Saturday in the parking lot of the aforementioned fast food joint, playing hacky sack, and dodging annoyed glances from the other patrons until they threatened to call the cops. We walk back down to Vinny’s house, not too far from the location of the party, and smoke two blunts between the five of us.

No fake friends flashing fake smiles. 

Or forcing me into uncomfortable situations. 

Just Cid tackling me to the bed and performing wrestling moves on me. And Barret showing us how he can effortlessly eat an entire large pepperoni pizza. Tifa and I sharing my headphones to listen to  _ Linkin Park  _ on the bed. And Vinny taking all four of us down in 4 v 1  _ Halo _ in complete silence, but cracking the slightest of smiles that warms his porcelain face. For the first time, in what feels like weeks, I don’t feel anxious about my existence. 

But at night, when I lay in the darkness of my room staring at the ceiling and listening to the echoes of mom and dad fighting, I realize something is still missing. Something that feels like a vortex in my chest. Like a blackhole that absorbs any ounce of joy I feel, and spits back out negativity. 

Monday approaches and I even consider apologizing to Sephiroth as if I was in the wrong. And I can’t talk to my friends about what happened between the two of us because that would mean admitting to them my faults. Or maybe I’m afraid they’ll actually enjoy the strain in our friendship. So, I’m alone with my thoughts and that’s a dangerous place to be. 

The dawn of a new school day rises. My dad left about fifteen minutes ago, slamming the door behind him, still upset about the fight with mom. I meant to ask him for a ride to school, but it slipped my mind when I spent an extra ten minutes in the shower zoning out into the drain and dreading the next week. Everything that transpired on Friday, from Religion to Johnny’s party, weighed heavily on my mind. And no one to share that with. So I feel like a ghost, moving through the motions. 

I sit outside in my uniform and stare at my phone, my finger hovering over Sephiroth’s contact. Part of me hopes he would drive past and see me sitting there. Pick me up and maybe we could talk about what happened. Or forget about what happened. But I know he won’t. I start walking down my block, towards the bus stop, knowing I’ll be late. My mother doesn’t even cross my mind as an option. If she and dad are still going at it, she’s probably sleepy, bitchy, and out for blood. I don’t want to be collateral damage in their war. 

I’m about to put my headphones in, so I can at least listen to Corey Taylor blood curdling screams as a form of relief, but I hear an engine purring behind me as it approaches. I stop and allow the black BMW pull next to me. And there he is, a stupid smile on his face that I find myself mirroring.

And for a second that empty space in my chest starts to close. 

“ _ Whale, whale, whale,” _ Reno starts, “what do we have here? I thought you get a ride with your bitch-ass friend?”

“I see you’re still stalking me,” I huff in a veiled attempt to seem bothered.

“What can I say? You’re fun to look at.”

I know I’m blushing and turn away for a second. “I usually get a ride, but he’s being a pussy and won’t talk to me.”

“Like I said, bitch-ass,” he mumbles as he lights his cigarette, still half out the driver’s side window. “So are you getting in or do I have to beg?”

“I think I like the sound of you begging,” I look back amused.

His eyes twitch with shock, but his confident smile never falters even as he exhales black smoke in my direction. “Look at that, someone’s a bit bolder.” I only offer him a shrug in return, arms over my chest like I’m waiting for him to indulge my request. “You know, I don’t usually have to beg guys to get in my car.”

I arch an eyebrow, “You have to beg this guy.”

He unleashes a loud laugh that echoes down the quiet street. “Just...get in my car, jackass, before I leave you here.”

_ Some begging _ . I relent, flipping him off as I pass the front of the car to the passenger door and get in. He’s still laughing softly as I aggressively pull the seat belt over me- Reno shooting me a mocking glance before he pulls away from the curb. I notice immediately that  _ Ride the Lightning _ is playing; the same CD from the first time I entered his car.

“You must really like this album,” I remark. 

He clenches his jaw, taking another drag from his cigarette before pushing force a small grin and responding, “It’s the only album that survived the ‘great CD purge of 2004’.” There’s a slight pause as  _ Nothing Else Matters _ starts up. I try to rack my brain about the meaning behind his tone; his voice dripping with tense sarcasm. Noticing my silence, he continues, “My parents weren’t really feeling my music, so they snapped my whole CD collection.  _ Ride the Lightning _ only survived because it was in the CD tray at the time.”

“Bummer,” I bite the inside of my lip at how dumb I sound. 

“Yup. Bummer.”

“You know, I could lend you my CD collection,” I blurt out, and his face relaxes as he momentarily takes his eyes off the road for a second to look at me. “...I use my Ipod mostly, so I don’t really need my CDs right now.”

“Really?” His question is so soft it’s almost painful. 

“Yeah, my dad is really into old school metal, so he got me into it. I have about fifty CDs from all different genres so they’ll be a selection.”

“Heh, that’s nice of you…” he trailed off for a moment like his mind retreated. I realize again, how little we know of each other. I’ve heard of his father through strangled mumbles of displeasure from my dad as he re-built the back fence to Mr. Sinclair’s liking. But something bothers me, the way Reno’s eyes darkened at the mention of his parents. The way they sunk, as if recalling a painful memory. Then he notices my eyes on him, and his face flushes and he tries to repair the crack in his mask with a forced smirk. “And I guess in exchange, I’ll give you free rides until Sephiroth stops being a huge vagina.”

“You...don’t have to give me rides. I want you to borrow them; no strings attached.”

He nods and almost looks relieved, “Well, I want to give you rides.”

I saw an opening and lost myself in the comfort that embraced the inside of this car. And deadpanned, “I think you want to ride...dis dick.”

We both succumb to ridiculous laughter that drowns out Metallica’s rough guitars. I lean my head on the passenger side window trying to hide my face, because I don’t know how I could lose myself so effortlessly. 

“I believe I told you I am a top,” he snarks back.

“Oh man, this will be an issue,” I sigh dramatically, “I too am a top.”

He snorts, “Right. I don’t think you know what the fuck you are.”

“Can’t exactly argue with that logic.”

And that’s the first day, where the darkness that shrouded me illuminated and I felt the empty space in my chest become full with a new sensation. And I decided to show him where he could listen to rock on the radio station for the rest of the day. We sat outside his car in the back parking lot of the school while Foo Fighters blasted out the window, sharing a cigarette because I was out. He didn’t even second guess himself when he offered me the stick and I didn’t hesitate taking it from his hand. Feeling warmth when our fingers touched. The first time I didn’t wait for Aerith to pull up, so I could steal a regretful glance. Almost late because Reno and I wanted to finish the song; seeing it as a sin to cut it short. And I thought, this was fine. 

On the second day, I come out of my house and Reno is already outside. We don’t exchange jabs outside the vehicle, and I just hop in the passenger seat. The radio station still playing rock classics, but I pull out my CD binder from my messenger bag and start thumbing through.

“Put on something good,” he says as he drives. 

“That’s the plan,” I assure him.

“None of that EMO shit though.”

  
“What’s wrong with that EMO shit?”

“That shits for sad people.”

“Have we met? I am sad people.”

He laughs, shaking his head, “Well I’m angry people. Have anything for them?”

I knew exactly the album. I take out  _ Ride the Lightning _ , allowing it temporary residence in my binder, and replace it with  _ Iowa _ by Slipknot. The growling sobs of Sid Wilson- the bands DJ- fill the car. Reno shoots me an uncertain glare. 

“Don’t worry, this is just the intro. The next song is  _ People = Shit.”  _

And a sinister smile cracks along his face. “I can fuck with that.”

I amuse him with my attempt to teach him how to headbang. And he sputters a genuine laugh that I realize sounds different from his other displays of amusement. Without a brick holding them back. He asks me how I could do that without hurting my neck. I explain that this is probably my only real talent. And he’s quick to remind me I can play guitar.

And admits to letting himself the pleasure of listening to me sing before making himself known the other day when he appeared in my basement. That causes my cheeks to burn with embarrassment. But he tells me he wants to hear more, one day. 

This time, we stand outside the car while  _ Heretic Anthem _ plays. And we both agree that this song is appropriate as we stare at the red brick church that lays a few yards away from the school. When he pulls out his pack of smokes, he also pulls out my brand and hands it to me.

“I know you hate reds,” he says and I take the pack with a shy  _ thank you _ . 

“When did you start smoking?” I ask.

“Twelve,” he answers blankly, leading against the back of his car and looking off into the distance with a pensive expression on his face. “You?”

“Fourteen. Peer Pressure.” I grumble as I light the cigarette and realize I’ve maybe been a puppet for longer than I like to admit. 

“Rebellion.” He responds to a question I didn’t ask. And for a moment I wonder if we are both killing ourselves for other people. 

Motivated by expectations pressed upon us. 

“I heard you were thinking of playing baseball,” I recall.

His eyes narrow, “Who said that?”

“Angeal. At the party...said you were pretty good at your old school.”

Reno has a sour look upon his face and I notice that since we’ve met, he’s been tight lipped about who he was in a previous life. That the only thing I could gather was his sexuality, and only because he made that obvious enough for me to guess- because he wanted me to. The song comes to a close and he tosses his cigarette away without a word. He looks perturbed; his eyebrows curved in anger, darkening those blues in his iris’. 

“I used to play,” he says finally, “I don’t know if I can anymore.”

“Oh, sorry.” I bring my eyes to the ground. Kicking myself for asking such an invasive question. 

“You’re not going to ask?” he continues, “Why I can’t play?”

“If you wanted me to know, you would tell me, right?” I acknowledge. I bring my eyes to him and he’s eyes seem to tremble under my gaze. I recognize we are leaning closer to each other on the back of his car, that vibrates with angry guitars and gnarly vocals, from within. His arms over his chest like a guard; tense. 

But before the moment falls into a well of awkwardness, he drops his arms to his side, and with an even tone heavy with stone he says: “Broke my arm in two place...falling down a flight of stairs.”

And I knew what he meant by that statement. And it hung in the air like the chorus of a fading song; one I wonder that he sings too often. He walks to the drivers side again to turn off the car so we can make our way to class. I try to think of something to say. I don’t know how he feels. 

I repeat that sentiment.

I don’t know how he feels. 

And on the second day I realize that while we share a backyard, separated by a poorly constructed fence, we live in two different worlds. 

“If you ever need to run away,” I say quickly, “Just come over.”

I expect a snarky response. Or to brush the statement behind. But he tumbles his keys in his hands a few times as if weighing options. “Will do.” 

On the third day, I decide that our goodbyes are too awkward. Standing there for two seconds too long, engulfed in the fire of each other's ocean eyes. Daring the other to take that final step, that would close the empty cold space between us. But there’s no turning back when that happens. 

And as we spend more time together, I begin to wonder which one of us is not ready.

“In Staten Island, we slap our hands and do the half hug,” I show him using my own hands. And he just stares at me like I have sprouted a new head. 

We are sitting in front of my house after I took him up on another offer to drive me home from class. For the last two days, I hitched rides with Cid and his mom, trying to limit the amount of time Reno and I were seen together. Taking separate staircases when we enter school, even if it meant I had to walk an extra few feet to my homeroom. We tried avoiding each other at lunch, but I found him in the bathroom the first day, and the second and third he demanded I see him in the library to go over Math homework since I failed a test. “I can’t be friends with someone who can’t Math, yo.” He had said. No one saw us, but there was still that pain in the back of my neck everytime I had to turn to make sure no one was looking. Judging. Gossiping. But when we were apart I felt a pain in my lips, a permanent frown I couldn’t shake. So when Cid had practice today, Reno was there dangling his keys by his car. 

“That’s stupid,” he criticizes. “Why do we need a hand shake?”

“Don’t you have a special way of saying goodbye in Tennessee?”

“Yeah, good bye.” 

“Well we don’t have to do the half hug, we can do something different. I have a different handshake for all my friends.”

“Ya’ll cheesy up here,” he shakes his head. 

I chuckle as his accent accidentally slips past. He shoots me a warning glare, which only makes me laugh louder. “ _ Ya’ll _ . Everytime you say that, your accent comes out.”

“I don’t  _ have _ an accent,” he argues. Swallowing hard as if that would help. “Tennesseeans don’t have accents. We speak like normal Americans. It’s not our fault ya’ll sound dumb everywhere else.”

“Ooooh,” I retort dramatically, “someone’s cute when he’s mad.”

He blushes.  _ Achievement unlocked _ , I think as he tries to regain his composer. “Fine, if pretty boy wants to be corny, I’ll play along.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay give me your hand and I’ll show you-”

“I’ve seen this porn-”

“Would you just fucking let me have this!”

He huffs and extends his right hand. Using my left, I take a hold of his wrist to guide him- the uniform acting as an unfortunate barrier between skin- and extend my right. “Okay, so, it’s pretty simple.” I walk him through the steps: 1. Open palm slap. 2. Back of hand slap. 3. Open palm again, drag fingers along. 4. Fist bump. 5. Fireworks.

Reno stares at me for two seconds, as if scanning my face for a hint of joking. But I’m serious. Even more so when I see how antagonistic he’s being. “If the eye fucking each other during school doesn’t out us, this,” he points to our hands, “is definitely going to out us.”

“No it’s not,” I say with a smirk, “Everyone does their own handshakes. It’s a thing. Trust me.”

“You’re full of shit,” he grumbles. Sighing in defeat, “Fine. Let’s do this then.”

We get through the first two steps, but on step three he changes the move. Instead of gliding fingers through trembling palms, he latches our fingers together and pulls me closer to him.

Our foreheads almost touching. 

Bodies separated by the center console of his car.

And shock waves that wreck through my body when I feel his breath against my lips.

We are looking directly into each other. Right through his eyes.

That look like electricity. Lightning cracking through an ink black sky. 

And I feel my heart beating in my throat, and burying my words. 

He moves in just an inch to close the gap-

But all my doubt rushes back and I move an inch away.

I expect him to throw me out of the car. And I feel the hole that exists in my chest slowly open.

But instead, he lets his fingers caress mine. And he forces a disappointed smile, “Not yet? Okay.” My mouth dries up any chance of vocalizations. My only answer, gently grab his fleeting hand with mine. He continues, “Don’t sweat it, pretty boy.” His hand slips away and he curves it into a fist. “Fist bump, next?” I comply like a zombie. And then.

“Fireworks.”

And I wondered if God ever made a mistake, did he ever get a redo? 

On the fourth day, Sephiroth reappears. Via text. That he can be outside my house in ten minutes; as if nothing had happened the last few days. Like no call, no apology, ignoring my existence in the hallways and going as far as momentarily changing his seat in Religion. I bite my lip, and tell him I’m good. Reno will be outside in five minutes and even if today would be the last day of our morning rides, I wouldn’t give it up….

And when I get in the car, the red-head doesn’t mention what happened yesterday afternoon. He doesn’t look unhappy to see me, his mouth twitching to a small, satisfied, smile. He drives with a cigarette in between those lips I almost tasted. Sunglasses hiding his eyes. And playing drums with his fingers along to Iron Maiden while making small talk about school. 

But I feel suddenly silenced. Toying my phone in my hand and answering his questions with an even tone, until he snatches his cigarette from his mouth and blurts out, “Everything okay?”

“Sephiroth texted me this morning,” I say dejectedly, like I just received terrible news. “I guess we’re cool again.”

I look at him from my peripheral. He tenses up again; I watch him work through what he wants to say next. He takes another drag of his smokes, and exhales into an equally unhappy sigh. “Cool stuff.”

The sounds that occupy the car come solely from the music leaking through the speakers. I rest my head against the window and watch the scenery fly by with an air of regret- as if I am watching my own life flash before me. The sensation of dread that prys open that door in the center of my ribcage that often feels void. And I’m torn into two people again. The one who wants to grab Reno and crash our lips together; damn the world and their opinions. And the other part who imagines that fallout that would follow. 

Like Chernobyl. 

He pulls into his parking spot behind the school and turns the car off entirely. We both sit there for a moment, in dense silence. I look ahead, at the changing leaves of the trees that line the building, the orange and yellows and reds. Especially the reds, that reflect the sun and cast a bloody hue over the dying grass. It smells of Autumn. Of pumpkin, and burning wood, and a breeze tickled with apple cinnamon. And everyone feels Spring is a time for new beginnings, but I preferred Fall. The feeling of being wrapped in a blanket. Comforted. And that’s what this car feels like. And what it’s felt like for the last four days. And maybe why we haven’t opened the doors because neither one of us wants this to be over. 

“So,” he starts, his voice like a small earthquake, “I guess you’ll go back to getting rides from him.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I respond. My heart beats me like a sledgehammer. 

He runs his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I...mean it’s outta my way to get you, anyway.” He trips over every word like they are boulders getting in his way. And I know he’s full of shit and trying to make the both of us feel better. 

My brain tries to force words out of my mouth which refuses to comply. And instead, I feed into his lies. “True...probably for the best anyway.”

“Yeah, we...see each other enough.”

“Yeah, we have like every class together.”

His laugh tastes like salt, “Almost every class.”

“And maybe it’s better to just...see each other less.” And I roll my own eyes at that statement that smacks me harder than Aerith did the other night. 

Reno flinches, “Yeah,” and bites his lip for a moment, concentrating extra hard on the trees that sway out the window. “Though I...we’re friends. Guys can be friends. Guys are  _ allowed _ to be friends.” His words seem on fire. As if he isn’t talking to me, but to some unseen force demanding justification.

“Of course,” I say quickly in a pathetic effort to comfort him, “and we’re friends.”

“Yes. We even have a stupid handshake and everything.” 

“Well it’s not stupid, but yes. We’re friends…”

“That’s right...friends.”

And that word tastes bitter on my lips.

And from the venom that drips from his tone, I’d say he feels the same.

Something hangs in the empty air. A question. A why can’t it be…

Why does it have to be…

I wish for the courage to give him  _ something _ . 

Because I know exactly what I want to say to him...

And I fucking hate every part of me that shuts down when the words even attempt to breach the tense air of this car. So I say nearly nothing. And I feel him drifting away-How long can he wait for me?

“Uhm,” I grind my teeth causing a tension headache which adds to everything else that feels wrong. “Should I come to the library today…”

His pause is like a knife. “Actually, I’m...going to go off campus with the guys and get lunch at...whatever shitty deli is in the area.”

I nod slowly. “Okay.”

We exit the car and all the words we didn’t say fly into the wind. And on the fourth day, we stand underneath the red tree in the back of the school where we hope no one can see us and do our secret handshake. 

Which doesn’t work.

Because we linger for another strangled second. Looking at each other. 

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” I say, finally finding the words to sum up everything.

Reno slowly removes his sunglasses, “You mean your dick? Just think of two nuns fucking and it’ll be fine.”

I close my eyes in frustration and find that to be one of the bigger mistakes. “Jesus Christ, Reno, why are you like this?

“Good ol’ Southern trauma.” Then he holds out his hand, “Give me your phone.” I arch an eyebrow, grabbing it from my front pocket and handing it to him silently. He frantically fiddles with the device. “Pretty stupid that  _ friends _ don’t have each others phone numbers.”

“Yeah, pretty stupid of us actually.” I realized in the last four days, we never needed to communicate via phone. He knew when to get me from the house and I knew when to be waiting. As if we had been doing this forever. 

“There, I texted myself so I have yours now.” He hands it back to me. 

I stare at his contact name, “Definitely just friends?”

“Yup,” he plays around with his phone, “And you are. Obviously never happening.”

He’s bitter.

And I’m angry at his reaction.

A stiff “see you in class” and he turns to walk away.

And the hole in my chest becomes too much to bear and I shout after him. “Change. It. Now.”

He stops, turning his head and he has an amused smirk on his face. “Don’t get all pissy, pretty boy. I’ll change it when you’re ready.”

“What if I a-”

“Nope, you’re not. And that’s okay. But just know when you are, I’ll be here.”

I blink a few times, trying to make sense of his logic. “Why?”

“Cause you’re the endgame, Cloud.”

On the fourth day, I realized he needed me to be completely sure of myself before anything else could ever happen. He respected my uncertainty and I needed to respect his...

Because something happened that he hasn’t told me. A trauma.

So on the fifth day while I am sitting in Sephiroth’s car. Now forced to listen to hip hop and pop, while he checks himself in the mirror. And all I can think about is how much I’d rather be with Reno. And that hole in my chest throbs like it's in pain. But with that pain I feel some of that doubt that has coiled around my brain for so long start to evaporate. Not all of it- definitely not all of it- and I can feel what’s left threatening to take over at the slightest inconvenience. 

It’s not easy erasing years of self-hate. 

I eye my apparent best friend. He’s yammering on about banging Scarlet that night of the party after he left me; not realizing I haven’t been listening to him. 

“Speaking of party,” he starts, and I already know the next words out of his mouth. “There’s one tonight at that chick Kyrie’s place over in South Beach.  _ Everyone _ is going. Even Tifa and her low-life friends apparently. You game?”

I put on my mask, return to the part I’ve played well up until now- and one I will play just a little longer. “Definitely.”

He’s pleased. Relishing in the effortless control he has over me. 

But I flip open my phone, scroll down to Reno’s contact:

**Wanna accidentally run into me @ a party 2nite, best buddy?**

It takes 10 seconds for it to vibrate in my hand.

  
**Absolutely, pal.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally planning on keeping with the Monday update schedule, but I am now about three chapters ahead and couldn't wait. Might have to go to a two day update schedule so stay tuned! I was determined to write a short chapter to create a bridge to the next chapter, which will be a bit heavier. But, alas, I just have so much to say with these two that it's hard. The chapter title is reference to the page numbers: 102 to 115 on my document. 
> 
> These characters are out for themselves, so you all can blame them for why it's taking so long haha. Also, I'm getting the vibe that Cloud might have a crush on Sephiroth, which wasn't my original intention, but seems I can't control my own characters. What does everyone think?


	11. Warning Shots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud had hope.   
> But Cloud's hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicide Mention

Chapter Eleven: Warning Shots

Cid and I smoke a joint outside the house before joining the rest of the crew. There’s already a large group of teenagers hanging outside, most I don’t recognize, but I’m sure that will change. Kyrie attends Curtis High School, where Cid’s ex goes and it’s pretty much confirmed Shera’s somewhere in the small two story house on Reid Avenue. He’s trying to pump himself up; whispering tense motivational phrases his coaches tell him before he has a meet. I’m stalling for a similar reason- Aerith showed up right as we walked towards the house, with Reeve, Tseng, Rufus, Scarlet and Elena. It became apparent she has been adopted by that group, and I felt my stomach fall right out of my body when Tseng and her smiled at one another.

And I am definitely not sure why I am even upset. 

“This is going to be fuckin’ fun,” I murmur and Cid nods handing me the joint. 

“I think I need to avoid whiskey tonight,” he says, “probably start a fight with whatever piece of shit she’s dating now.”

“Bro, you broke up with her,” I remind him.

He looks down at his feet and takes a moment, nodding in agreement but I sense there’s something he wants to add. “Yeah. Big mistake.”

I try to ignore the way he looks at me when he finally brings blue speckled eyes to me. As if I had something to do with his own stupidity. Then Tifa walks out of the house and jogs over to the both of us. “Are you two done crying, yet?” She brings her hands to her hips. She’s wearing her Tripp pants with chains, but paired this with a corset top over fishnets that bring her chest to a whole other level. And I’m staring at her eyes which sparkle with feign anger. 

“No one’s crying,” Cid corrects; his eyes now fighting between green and gray. 

“Not yet,” she smiles at him like an invitation. Then she grabs both our hands, “Come on, let’s goooooo.”

The size of the house is deceptive. From the outside, it looks about as small as Johnny’s, but the inside extends much further and there’s a fully finished basement where the beer pong table usually stays. Music from the radio in the living room blasts the Top 40 hits of the last two years, but muffled due to the amount of conversations swirling around the room. I try to take an inventory of everyone.

Tifa drags us to the rest of the group who hold up the kitchen. Vinny sits at the table, a bottle of vodka for himself, and scans the faces of the other guests. Barret, Biggs, and Wedge are talking football. Barret thinks the Giants are sure to be in the playoffs this season after winning four in a row. But the other two, rabid Jets fans, continue to remain in denial that their team has any shot. Yuffie stands awkwardly drinking a beer slowly, as if feeling like she doesn’t belong with the rest of us- and since she is perhaps one of the youngest here, she may be right. Jessie next to her, snaps her eyes at me and turns around dramatically to ignore my existence. Cid catches the action and quietly laughs. 

Sephiroth, who rolled in with us, links up with his friends outside. The Shinra crew take over the living room, Scarlet on Rufus’ lap, Elena asking Reeve questions that cause his face to drop with disappointment. And Aerith shifting around, biting her lip, and nursing the beer in her hand. Tseng seems equally uncomfortable next to her, staring at the ground and kicking imaginary rocks. 

The other faces are barely familiar. People I’ve seen from other parties. Some random classmates I never interacted with. A couple of guys who look entirely too old to be at a high school party standing in the corner. The usual suspects.

One person missing, however. I look at my phone quickly- the last text I sent was the address to the party and he responded with **_got it_ ** **.**

Before I have time to dwell on his absence, Vinny silently hands me a plastic shot cup filled with clear liquid. The rest of the crew hold the same mini-red cups in their hands. 

“Cheers to,” Cid starts, “Uh.”

“Cloud being the first one to black out and vomit,” Barret laughs.

“Fuck you,” I snap but everyone just shoots me a side glance and I sigh, “Just...make sure I don’t choke on my puke, please.”

A resounding “yes” roars from my friends. 

And bottoms up. 

The shit Vinny drinks tastes like gasoline, and tears at my already sore throat. I try to not make a face, but everyone looks like they are about to spit the liquid back up except Vin who immediately pours himself another shot. 

Cid smacks my arm, his cheeks flushed, “Let’s do one more then go downstairs. I hear there’s two pricks down there who have been holding down the table for the last hour. Let’s fuck them up, bro.”

“Fuck yeah,” I choke when I taste the liquid in my saliva and stupidly take another shot. 

We grab a few PBRs and head to the basement, where the chorus of cheers and jeers grow louder. Kyrie sits on the last stair next to another girl, tiny just like her, and both greet us with smiles as we step over them. We’ve been partying at this house when Johnny’s becomes too much. Kyrie and her Curtis friends are a little more put together than New Dorp. True middle class. Her mom just works nights as a nurse, single mom, so the house has become a spot for parties. We treat it with more respect than Johnny’s, though. That’s for sure. Anyone tries to mess with the house, break something, steal something, usually escorted out with force. We had trouble with the Rosebank crew, who act like this is some kind of turf war with South Beach, but they haven’t shown their faces since the beginning of Summer. 

The basement matches the length of the house, so there’s plenty of room. In a mock kitchen on the other side of the basement is the beer pong table and where most of the noise comes from. A certain voice peeking from the crowd that I recognize; and my chest somersaults. 

We enter just as Reno and Rude are exchanging a hi-five and two poor souls walk away defeated.

“Yo, we next,” Cid shouts over the crowd, pointing to him and I.

“Ah fuck,” Rude grimaces, “Are you going to try to show your dick again?”

“What?” Cid acts offended, “That’s a legal distraction!”

“No one wants to see your dick, Highwind, please.”

The two debate the legitimacy about showing privates to distract the other team- which will be futile, because at some point tonight, Cid will drop his pants and run around naked until we wrestle him out of the house. I tune the two out, my eyes on Reno who tosses the small white ball in the air while his own blues scan my body- caterpillars in my stomach. Sephiroth had mentioned something about my outfit- that I looked like I was trying to impress someone. I’m wearing black jeans that actually fit and lack holes, a  _ Ride the Lightning _ shirt that I just bought because, in my stupid head, it reminded me of Reno, and a blue, gray, and black plaid shirt that I never wore because color. But my mom insisted that it brought out my eyes when she bought it for my birthday. 

And from the look he’s giving me, the half smile, the biting of his tongue before it has a second to touch his own lips, I’d say he’s impressed. He, meanwhile, always looks put together. Dark blue jeans that are neither too tight nor too loose, black zip-up lightweight jacket, with a small  _ Guess _ logo, over a black shirt. And I’m not sure if he picked up on the way my face flashed with disappointment, because he removed the jacket, tossing it onto a chair, revealing those two perfect arms; arms I know sculpted from playing baseball.

“Ya’ll gonna talk about dicks all night,” he announces to our two friends, “or we playin?”

“I’m ready!” Cid fills up our cups and gets them set up.

Reno looks unfazed, but he has no idea what’s about to happen. 

“Winner goes first,” I offer as if doing him a favor. 

Reno arches an eyebrow, “You sound confident.”

“Trust me, you’re going to need it.”

Reno shoots first, getting the center cup immediately. I’m impressed and nod approvingly as I pick up the cup to drink. Rude follows up with a perfect shot directly into a cup in the back left. Cid and I cheers, shooting down the warming liquid and taking a sip from the additional beers we brought to wash it down. 

Roll back. Rude goes first this time and gets another cup. Reno acts like his concentrating, narrowing his eyes at the front cup, but then bounces the ball. I whack the small white ping pong ball violently across the room, nearly hitting someone. 

“Get outta here with that shit,” I spat.

“Who the fuck bounces on the second turn, guy,” Cid mocks.

“I do,” he shrugs, catching the offending ball that’s thrown back at us.

Our turn. Reno and Rude try talking shit. But I ignore them and focus on the task at hand. Even with my brain clouded by alcohol, I sink the front cup with a “foop.” Cid follows with another in. And before the two guys have a chance to finish their drinks, we sink two more. Reno and Rude look at the cups, now with half cleaned balls in them, the cups in their hands, then each other. And I know they are starting to sweat. They pour the remaining liquid down their throats and throw us the ball again.

We sink two more. 

Reno begins to get testy. Shooting me warning glares, as I laugh at him, and occasionally snapping at his pong partner. Realizing this would be a quick game, Cid and I decide to show how bored we are with their performance and start doing trick shots to purposely miss- in order to make the game more interesting. At one point, Reno nearly crushes a ball in his hand when Cid jogs further away from the table and shouts “Kobe!” sinking another shot. 

“Someones a sore loser,” I taunt. 

Reno’s shaking his head, staring at the three cups they have left, and the one in his hand. They manage to get three more shots on us, but their partnership crumbles with every jeer in their direction. The red-head complaining that his cousin should have warned him about us, and Rude lamenting that he never had this problem before. In which Cid quickly quips that he must say that to his girlfriend. And I think Rude, who stands about Cid’s height, but has at least fifty pounds on him, considers tackling him to breaking every bone in his body. 

I’m washing the ball in the water cup. Reno’s looking at me impatiently with a full beer in his hands from how slow he’s been drinking them. I see his blue eyes look bloodshot already, probably been consuming alcohol for a while, and his normally pale cheeks are rosy. He says something about me taking my sweet time, sarcastically, but I notice he can’t help a smile that sneaks across his face. And I consider purposely missing the shot just to keep him rooted in that spot- where we can speak to each other freely and without judgement. However…

“Renoooo,” a female voice whines. Pushing between him and Rude, Elena presses her body against the red-heads in a suggestive manner. And it takes every.single.ounce of self-control to not break the ball in my fist. “Where have you been?”

“Hey,” he says weaky, lifting his hands away and trying to pull back, but she’s grazing a single finger down his chest. And we both know how it might just look if him, an apparent straight guy, pushes the attractive blonde girl away. So, he gently pats her back with his free hand and forces a gross glass smile. “Look at you cutie.”

“Are you  _ done _ yet,” she slurs, shooting him large puppy dog eyes, that he responds to the same flirtatious look I’ve found him giving me.

“Almost,” he purrs, “we just have to beat these losers. Then you and Cissnei can be next.”

“No,” she stomps her feet, “I want to hang out with you.”

I notice I’m clenching my teeth when Cid elbows me and tells me to take my shot, with a voice laced with concern. I realize I fucked up. I stared just a minute too long trying to calm my breathing; green envy rushed through me like a bullet. Giving way to anger that pierced my chest. 

I shoot the ball.

And it lands in the cup he’s holding with a slight splash.

Reno looks at me, with a mix of shock, and sadness. 

“Death cup,” I hiss, “Game over. Guess you’re off the hook”

Rude slams the table, “Dammit, Elena, what did I say about interrupting our games!”

Cid collapses into laughter. Slapping my back with approval. Maybe mistaking my intense glare at the two people in front of me as concentration. Elena’s smile is offensive as she pulls on Reno’s black shirt. Pleased with the outcome. 

Reno slowly removes the ball, dropping it in the water cup, Avoiding my eyes as he chugs his beer and finishes off the remaining cups with Rude. He then grabs her wrist and drags her away without a word; I feel the aggression in his actions, but she giggles approvingly. And I consider flipping the entire table over- but that will just be entirely too dramatic.

The thought does give away to a memory.

Something with a beer pong table. 

My body falling through one while someone screams “stop.”

Cid’s slaps his hand on my back which yanks me from my darkened thoughts. I look at him; his smile clashes with the concern in his gray eyes. “You good?”

That’s a loaded question in a barrel of a gun. I nod, and let out an assertive yes. But I’m not. And I already made the decision to self-destruct. 

We play another round of beer pong, this time versing Biggs and Barret, who completely annihilate us. My head no longer in the game. Instead swirling with questions. Accusations. I was self-assured a moment ago, one thread yanked too hard completely dismantled that. After Cid and I lost, we shotgun the remaining PBR we brought down, and head up the stairs to the rest of the party. 

Everyone is at various levels of high or intoxicated. Rufus bumps into me, his eyes completely dilated, and snorts at my existence. Patting me on the head and calling me short. I consider shoving him across the room, but Scarlet comes up behind him, snaking her slender arms around his waist and nibbling on his ear. 

I point at her, “Didn’t you fuck Sephiroth last weekend?”

Her eyes go wide and Rufus throws her off him immediately. “That’s where the fuck you were laast Friday! I fucking knew it!”

“Where were you!” She counters, punching him in the chest, “with your whore in Manhattan?”

Easy.

I’m satisfied with my destruction. 

I walk into the kitchen where Sephiroth and his friends are now taking shots of whiskey. I b-line for them, because I’m in the mood to get completely destroyed. And when I walk over to the group, I boldly snatch the bottle from Sephiroth’s hands, crushing the conversation, and take a shot. 

His eyes light up, “Someone looks like he’s ready to have fun.”

I swallow the burn of the liquid. “I told Rufus you banged Scarlet.”

“Ha,” he laughs, “You beat me to it.”

Because that’s the only reason he would even touch her. He and Rufus have their own issues, separate from us. I have no idea what caused it, or why, and I don’t care. He grabs the whiskey from me and pours the whole group another shot. “To Scarlet,” he shouts loud enough for the entire party to hear, and we all drink in her name as the argument in the other room reaches a fever pitch. 

“Best blow job I ever got,” Genesis cracks a rare smile and we laugh at this poor girl. I realized briefly. Poor girl who has been convinced that the only thing worthy about her is her body. And I feel sick that I’m participating. That I contributed. 

Until another shot finds itself in my hand and I continue this spiral.

And things quickly become hazy.

Scarlet does eventually approach me and gives me the second slap in my face in a week, before Rufus grabs her to continue their fight. He doesn’t even bother accosting Sephiroth, who stands a few inches taller than him and could definitely destroy him in an actual fight. Tseng then tries to seperate the two, by injecting himself in the middle and taking the brunt of the blonde girl's physical assault. 

I sneak away from the threesome. Someone on the front stoop who I’ve seen around smokes a blunt and offers me some, which I gladly accept. Now my mind transforms to a foggy mess and I am barely able to stand up straight. 

I stumble back into the house, trying to remain as focused as possible. Time becomes an illusion. Like a scratched CD. Jumping forward. Repeating the verse. When I look at the red numbers on the cable box, I see two ones.

I run into Tifa, whose face is red and eyes almost black. She’s laughing about something and wraps her arms around my neck. And I give her a small kiss on the forehead, and she giggles the way Elena giggled when Reno grabbed her wrist. And suddenly I feel like shit.

I gently untangle her from my body, and tell her I need to get some air. 

Run by Cid who has found Shera and is trying to have a conversation with her with a vile tongue, while she looks away annoyed. 

Barret has found a girl, who I’ve never seen, and he’s leaning against the wall, looking extremely attractive under the glow of the hallway light- and I nearly slam my head against the wall to remind myself to  _ stop checking out my friends _ .

Then Vinny appears with another shot, and he’s all sinister smiles, watching the alcohol fueled massacre unfold around him. And I take the clear liquid, and mix it with the rest. 

I need a break. 

Go into the bathroom. Empty the nozzle. Stare at myself in the mirror and swear I’m staring at a movie I’ve already watched.

I’ve done this dance before. Many times. 

But tonight was supposed to be different. I feel my phone vibrate and fumble it out of my pocket, nearly sending it to its death in the sink.

**Where r u?** From “Definitely Just Friends.”

The blackhole in my chest takes over my entire body. 

Crushing emptiness.

I try to text him back, but fail miserably. I manage to get out.  **Bth.** Before I give up and storm out of the bathroom like I’m on a mission. Looking for the switch to blow myself up. Drugs, or more alcohol, or a girl to make out with in front of him in an effort to get him back for the crime he didn’t commit.

But Cid pulls me back into the kitchen to shotgun another beer. And I go through the motions. Apparently we were racing with Biggs and I lost when I spat out half of it. Laughter behind me. Someone, Genesis? Calls me a pussy. 

Cid’s doing worse off than me. Apparently he broke the whiskey rule because his breath reeks of the liquid. We meet each other on the floor of the kitchen trying to have a conversation about our exes. He vents about breaking up with Shera because he fell for someone else. I groan about breaking up with Aerith because she cheated on me with Sephiroth.

“No she didn’t,” he slurs, snickering like a child, “I don’t believe that shit for a second.”

“I...walked in and-”

Cid turns and throws up in the trash can. 

I get handed tequila from Sephiorth who has broken into Kyrie’s mom’s liquor cabinet now. His lips look like a snake. 

Everything is getting out of hand and I have no interest in stopping it.

Then I see something that interests me. Outside, Tifa and Aerith. The raven-haired girl stands across her former friend, arms crossed over her chest and eyes curved in anger. Aerith looks like she’s pleading. I think about what Cid said before he emptied the contents of his stomach. I think about the phone that continually vibrates in my pants; like this kid can’t find me in a small fucking house. I look at Sephiroth pouring tequila down a bunch of willing female mouths. I go on auto-pilot. Let this terrible part of me take over. I push myself off the floor, using Cid as support and head towards the two girls. 

Their conversation halts as soon as I enter the backyard. Tifa sways back and forth, feeling the effects of the alcohol. Aerith clenches her fist as soon as her green eyes rest on me. 

“Can I talk to Aerith alone for a sec?” I ask.

“Our conversation is over anyway,” Tifa walks, or more like crashes back, into the kitchen, tripping over Cid’s body. 

I lead Aerith to the side of the house for some more privacy- though Tifa and Cid have everyone pretty much caring for them. She reluctantly follows, I feel her eyes bear into the back of my head. When I turn to look at her, using the house to help me stand up, she has pure hatred upon her face. Such a change from a year ago, when I first asked her out. And her face lit up like a firework. 

“That looked like an intense conversation,” I observe, pulling out my cigarettes knowing she hated that I smoke.

“What do you want, Cloud?”

I try to keep my eyes focused on the task. Placing the cigarette between my trembling lips and lighting up. “I wanted to talk to you about the night we broke up.”

She laughs angrily, “Now you want to talk about it? When you can barely stand up?”

“I’m standing.” I’m not, I feel myself sliding down the house, but I fix myself. “And I want to...to know. I want to know if what I saw was...what I saw. Or something else.” 

She pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head, her soft brown locks of hair swaying in the wind. “I don’t know,” then she takes a sharp breath. Standing straight and staring directly into me, her voice shaking like the aftershocks from an earthquake “I don’t remember what happened. Exactly. The last thing I can recall is playing Kings with everyone in Vinny’s backyard. Then, you and Sephiroth fighting in the kitchen. Nothing in between. All I know is what people tell me, and it doesn’t feel like me. I may not know what exactly happened, but I know I didn’t cheat on you. I swear on everything, I didn’t cheat on you.”

Her eyes crack with tears that she quickly wipes away. I feel small. Like I’ve been the punchline of a joke that has gone on for too long. “What did he do to you?”

She tenses up immediately, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“If you didn’t-”

“Cloud, please,” she begs, “stop. You’re not ready to have these conversations and neither am I.”

“What are you talking about?” I grow annoyed with the lack of information and every drag of my cigarette causes my mind to loosen just a bit more. “What conversation? Just fucking tell me what’s going on?”

“The conversation,” she fumes, “That your best friend is a terrible person who uses and abuses everyone around him to fill the empty void in his black heart. That everyone sees right through him but no one has the balls to call him out. And that no matter what I tell you right now, you will always run back to him. You will always take his side.”

She breathes heavily, as if she just released a weight that has been dragging her down a lake and she can finally exhale. She almost looks relieved. But her cheeks are the color vermillion. And her eyes vibrate with fury. And I know I deserved more than the slap on the face the other day. I deserve worse. Aerith, and her words that ignited like a fire, was right. I lost her over a lie. The first person to really look past all my obvious flaws and got her hands dirty trying to help me. 

When I was never worth the trouble.

“I’m,” I swallow the smoke and nearly hack up a lung in the process, “really sorry.”

She looks away from me, “Anything else you want?”

My phone vibrates for the third time; as if trying to warn me against the words that are about to fall from my lips. And my brain screams at me to stop. “I…” can’t even look her in the eyes. “I’ve been missing you and missing us-”

Her mocking laughter cuts me off like a saw. “You can’t be serious right now? Are you that drunk? Or are you a sociopath?”

I flinch like her words are punches and snap my eyes at her. And I’m expecting her rage to have boiled over, but instead, she looks at me as if she thinks I am the most pathetic insect that she’s ever seen. And I wish I could pull a Gregor Samsa and turn myself into the “monstrous vermin” I am. Realizing I am incapable of forming any words that could fix the damage, Aerith continues, with the utmost confidence that I marvel at the display:

“Cloud, you don’t miss me. You miss the security I bring. You just want me so you can pretend to be something you’re not. And I won’t shoulder that responsibility anymore.” 

I feel the air knocked out of my entire body. Eyes wide. I want to shrink into the earth immediately. Fall off a cliff. Just run. But my feet are rooted to the ground. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry,” she pauses, and I see a twinkle of a dare in her green eyes, “I won't tell your secrets. That’s on you.”

And she walks away; and if her verbal assault hadn’t been solely directed at me and my character, I probably would have clapped at her magnificent act. Beautiful even. All this time I believed she was some meek porcelain doll that needed to be cared for or she would shatter. But how she turned the tables on me. 

Then my brain screams that she knows something no one else should. I go to chase her, but a forceful hand grabs my shoulders and swings me around. All the alcohol threatens to make an appearance, but I steady my stomach, my feet, and my eyes.

And Reno and I are face to face in the darkness of a cool Autumn night. 

“Not a good idea,” he says gently, though he looks bothered. 

“I have to talk to her,” I push.

“I think you said enough, pretty boy. That was quite the performance. Almost had me going there for a minute.”

“But, she said-”

He waves me off, “Come on, let’s go.” He takes me by the arm and pulls me towards a side entrance, “allow me to save you from yourself, once again.”

I glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. We enter the side of the house, which leads directly towards the basement staircase. There’s a commotion happening upstairs. Violent words being slung around effortlessly. With a chorus of pleads for every one to stop- and it reminds me of the song we sang on my birthday.

Reno helps guide me down the stairs, holding on to my arm tightly but cautiously looking around to make sure no one will see us. The basement abandoned; just empty beer bottles and crushed Red Solo cups. He navigates the house like he knows the layout by the heart, and finds an extra bedroom tucked away in the back devoid of life. There he lets me stumble to the bed, and I collapse on to the soft fabric face first. 

“No, no, that won’t do.” He turns me over onto my back, “Can’t have you choking on your vomit.” He sits on the bed next to me. My eyes half open but I can see the worry that creases his brow as he looks at me. “What’s going on with you?”

I snort, “Toxic coping mechanisms.”

“Clearly.” 

Sleep begs to claim me, but I feel his rough fingers gliding up and down my arm. And the warmth that follows. My desire to remain conscious wins. I move so I can sit up on the bed and look at him. His eyes are bloodshot and dilated, probably from the same blunt I stole from ages ago. Jacket still missing. Hair fury of red flames, as if someone had their hands through them; and my stomach curtles. But he looks as disappointed as me. Wilted like a flower under too much heat, starved for water. He’s too pretty to look so sad. 

I think about the expectations that fluttered through my head when I sent him the text. The rush of danger of existing together when we can barely hide the fact that our eyes are two magnets. I thought about finding him outside, in the safety of darkness, and tell him I don’t want to be definitely just friends. 

“I did not want tonight to go this way,” I groan.

“Me too.” He nods, “been looking for you all night…” His voice trails off and he freezes all movements. So sharply that it wakes my dying mind. And I open my eyes that had fallen closed and see him staring directly at my exposed wrists. At some point, I must have unbuttoned the cuffs to roll up the sleeves. Leaving myself completely out in the open.

And I don’t, or can’t, move. He’s going to bail. I feel it. I know it. I’m too much for him. Tonight, my pathetic performance, the scars on my body. My haunted mind. If I move, this is over. Before it even got a chance to start, and if I move he’ll leave. And the only person I wanted to see was him. 

But he takes my wrist in his hand, brushing his thumb across the scars. I try to make sense of the expression on his face; his brows knit together, his lips shut tightly, but I can see his throat quiver with words he’s trying to say. 

“Are you going to ask about them?” I fret hoarsely. 

He looks at my face, shocked; I guess he thought I fell asleep. But he composes himself, never letting go of my wrist. “Only if you’re comfortable enough with telling me.”

I pull myself up. Our eyes never break contact. And his are bright blue and washed with fear. I reveal the other wrist trembling. I finally pull my eyes towards them. I never looked at them this intently. The right, the one still resting in Reno’s grip, has one clean diagonal faded scar. Parallel to a blue vein. I swallow the bile that flings from my stomach and look at the left wrist, more mangled but healed better. 

“I got off three warning shots before I got confident,” I say bitterly. And I snatch them. Because I can’t look at them without t _ he thought _ piercing in the back of my mind. And I bury my face in my hands, trying to find the words to tell him what happened. The water returns to my lungs and breathing becomes a labor. Hot tears breach my eyes and I look through the memories like a broken film. Out of order. 

The fight my parents had right before; how they attack each other with vile exclamations and accusations that no longer hold any weight for me, because it’s the same script. But the line my dad spewed:  _ We would be done if not for the fucking kid _ . Was the cherry. The last little push I needed. I was thirteen, two months shy of my fourteenth birthday. 

But then I always blamed bearing witness to 3000 deaths on T.V. Being in Social Studies when I found out we were under attack. The teacher left us alone to walk back to her house because she couldn’t deal with the stress; how was I supposed to? My first anxiety attack- or was it a panic attack?- where I cried in the closet and the other boys called me a pussy and said I would die in the war. And when my mom finally picked me up from school, she was already drunk. The T.V on. The second tower fell right as we walked through the door and she collapsed on the couch and wailed that my father was  _ dead  _ until he walked through the door thirteen hours later covered in dust. 

Or maybe it was the years of bullying. Shoved against lockers. Finding death threats and dares to kill myself written all over my backpack. Every backpack. Because I would replace one and find more venom graffiti. And the ring leader? 90 % of the time? My best friend. Who used me as a literal and metaphorical punching bag to advance his popularity. And for what? Everyone still thinks he's a huge piece of shit except for me. 

And then,  _ then _ somewhere between all of that bullshit, I realize that I am not like all the other boys. I thought it was just a puberty delay, why I was the only one not trying to get my dick wet with a girl. Turns out, I don’t even like girls. And I’m fucking  _ twelve _ when this happens. At  _ camp _ . So poetic. My first heartbreak. And it fucking sucked. I gave too much to him too early and he fucking freaked. And it didn’t just hurt. It wasn’t like my heart shattered and I felt empty. I felt  _ ashamed. _ He made me ashamed of...

I take a breath. I feel my throat is completely shot.

And I see the look on Reno’s face.

Eyes wide as if he heard.

Everything.

I said everything out loud. Not sure when I started. I go back through the words but they quickly evaporate into the air. And I’m left with my strangle breaths. And touch my face and it’s wet with salty tears. And when I pull my hand away, I am met with the physical ramifications. I drop my hand onto my lap and allow an acidic laugh escape. 

“Or maybe...my brain is just sick. And sometimes it convinces me, like a bad friend, to do terrible things to myself.” I try to hold back the sobs that rock through my body. “And I just...wanted everything to be quiet for a minute.”

Exhaustion drowns out the internal noise this time. And I feel a sense of relief that I’ll be unconscious soon and won’t have to see Reno leave my broken self on this stranger's bed. But. His hand gently brushes along my face like the other night. 

“Feel better?” he asks, pulling me closer. 

And I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes as he runs his fingers through my gelled blonde locks of hair. My mind finally stalls. And all I focus on is the warmth of his lean body, the soft fabric of his shirt. My right arm moves around his waist, as his other hand rubs my back. I’ve never felt safer. And I never want to let this moment go. 

“Reno-”

“Don’t worry, Cloud. I’m not going anywhere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an extremely tough chapter for me to write. I may relate a lot to Cloud's struggle with toxic coping mechanisms, but Aerith's story directly relates to something that has happened to me, so if it still seems a little- I don't know- choppy? It's probably because I am having trouble writing.
> 
> Also, the teacher leaving after announcing the 9/11 attacks happened to me as well. It was such a surreal moment. Also when I had my first anxiety attack. 
> 
> I have the next two chapters written out. I might update Thursday since I am leaving for New York on Friday and might not update then. I am really excited for the next few chapters and I hope you all are to!
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments and observations. And the kudos! I live for kudos. My husband always asks if I got kudos so leave them so I can tell him!


	12. BECSPK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud shows Reno the cure to all hangovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Some troubling language

Chapter Twelve: BECSPK

Blackout nightmares.

Knowing I’m terrified.

No idea why. 

But the vibration of a phone sends my eyes flying open and I’m met with a ceiling I don’t recognize immediately. I blink a few times, but the whole universe moves with my eyes; and I’m on a boat. Drifting through the open sea. My stomach like a hurricane. 

A body squirms against me. And Reno’s head is buried in the crook of my neck, his arm draped over my chest and one leg thrown over mine. I have him planted in this spot with my left arm wrapped around him. And he fits like a perfect puzzle piece. Our breathing synchronized. The most pleasant view to wake up to after a night of self-destruction. 

The phone lights up in his pocket, and he drags his arm over my chest slowly, before grabbing the offending object.

I feel him move his head to look at the caller ID- and “Big Cuz” flashes on the screen. 

“Yo,” he answers, bringing the phone to his ear. I still feel underwater, and Rude’s voice sounds like an eternity away. “I’m...at the party? Yeah, I wanted to sober up before driving. Thanks, but I doubt they’re going to call looking for me; they probably hope I’m dead in a gutter somewhere. I’m being serious. Where did I go? Uh.” He pauses, pushing himself up with his free elbow, and I see a wince of pain flash through his eyes. “Sure, let’s go with that one if anyone asks.” Then he looks at me, smiles when he sees I’m half awake. “Yeah yeah, I’m being careful. Your concern is noted. Thanks, partner. I’ll call you later.” He flips the phone closed and shoves it back in his pocket. 

“It’s four thirty in the morning,” he grumbles, laying back down, this time on his back to give his right arm some reprieve. His head on my shoulder and scoots as close to me as possible. “So much for baseball if I keep sleeping on this arm wrong.”

“Are you okay?” I cringe when I hear my voice- barely above a whisper, every word like a razor against my throat. 

“Should be asking you that, pretty boy.” he cranes his neck to look into my eyes that feel heavy. 

“I’ll live,” I muster a convincing grin. But he furrows his brows like he can see through me. 

“You better.” He sighs and pushes himself up. My arm feels dead from being crushed under him for an undisclosed amount of hours. Worth it. “We should go. Shit went down last night. Or I guess a few hours ago?” 

“Where the hell are we anyway?” I feel every bone in my body crack when I slowly pull myself into a sitting position. Mistake. Feels like I have trolls behind my eyes stabbing my brain. The piercing post vodka migraine erupts like a volcano. “Fuck.” I press my hands against my eyes to try to relieve the pain. Followed by the cotton in my mouth making me gag every time I try to swallow. I need water. I need food. I need a gun. 

“Kyrie’s brother’s room apparently,” he replies, sliding off the bed, “he’s in college so this was a safe place.”

I try to get my head together. I still feel the effects of the alcohol twisting my eyesight. I focus on the patterns on the wood floor intently, trying to find the center of the universe to hold on to like life preserver. I pull my phone out of my pocket. Only two miss calls- Barret and Vinny- no texts or voice mails. “Some friends,” I mumble.

“Oh yeah, that’s on me.” Reno stands at the center of the room, hands on his hips, eyes closed trying to figure out how to function enough to drive us home. “They were looking for you and I didn’t want them...I don’t know...see you like that?” He opens his eyes, looking like two blue marbles in the center of a red carpet, taking a sharp breath. His cheeks still burn from the liquor. “I thought it was better to let you sleep it off and I’ll just take you home.”

I must have been looking at him like he was absolutely nuts, because he continues. “Don’t worry. Aerith was the one who found us and she covered. She told them she was taking care of you and to let you sleep. They didn’t put up much of a fight. Cid got into it with some random guy and got himself thrown into a table so they were all being kicked out.”

A thick silence descends around us. I remember fractured pieces from last night. My pitiful conversation with Aerith. What she had told me. That she was done being a security blanket for me. “She...covered?”

He nods, “Yeah, I’m not too happy about it either.” His voice edges with displeasure and I know it’s towards me. “But, it worked out. I don’t think anyone noticed we went missing.”

He doesn’t sound convinced, but it’ll have to do for now. I look back towards the floor, catching myself playing with my fingers, which I do when I’m nervous and see those scars glitter under the artificial orange light from the nightstand. More memories flood my mind. I begin to understand why my throat feels like it was involved in a knife fight. And why despite my actions during the night, Reno looks at me like he’s waiting for me to explode. Or melt into the bed and disappear. 

“Did I...tell you what happened?”

He lets out a heavy sigh and takes a seat next to me on the bed. “More or less.”

Everything I thought remained trapped in my head, he tells me I actually vocalized in a flurry of slurring words, through clenched teeth, and hot tears. I told him about my parents' fight, the bullying, the panic attack over 9/11 and the fall out from the aftermath. But once I finished my winded rant, he noticed it looked like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Recognizing that I must have kept everything locked away for entirely too long and I just needed a second to lay it all out, for someone to listen, and not judge. He then glides his hand down my arm, to my hand, and links our fingers together. 

But I notice he doesn’t seem finished. He bites his bottom lip and looks at our enclosed hands. And I remember telling, or at least mentioning something that no one knows about. 

“Did I say anything about Zack?” I question. 

“Well, you didn’t mention him by name.”

“Oh.” I slowly unlink our fingers, “Uhm, he...you know it really wasn’t his fault.” I start pulling down my sleeves, with shaking hands. I can’t look at them anymore. “He was two years older, and from a Christain family. It was,” I struggle getting out the words. Not surprising. But I also struggle with pulling up the memories of  _ him _ . I’ve buried them for so long, I wonder if it ever really happened. The humiliation I feel, though, that I remember. “Maybe he was right, and we were just experimenting-”

“Rodrick,” Reno says with a venomous tone. I lift my eyes to him, he’s looking through me; eyes narrowed. Jaw tight. “We all have one.” Maybe I looked like I was about to press him to elaborate, because suddenly, his snarky smile returns- the one I first saw when he walked into homeroom on the first day of school- and pats me hard on the back. “Let’s get your ass home, pretty boy, before you reveal any more deep dark secrets.”

He jumps up from the bed and grabs his jacket. I feel like a truck ran me over and splattered my guts all over the street, so it takes me two seconds to get myself together. He leans against the wall next to the door, staring off into space, jacket zipped up, keys in his hands; the sound piercing my skull. 

Reno looks lost under the canopy of a painful memory. Or multiple painful memories. Southern trauma, he called it, and I wish I knew more. That I could give him some reprieve. 

I pick up my body, almost stumbling over my own feet- my equilibrium completely shot to shit. I blame the tequila, the last drink, that still has a strangled hold on my body. Reno snorts when he sees me and I shoot him a dirty look; some help he’s being now. Wondering if this is his sadistic punishment. He opens the door first, checking for anyone else who might be conscious in the basement- empty as it was last night but no longer destroyed. Someone must have helped the poor girl clean up before her mother came home. We slowly make our way up the stairs, every creek from the stairs sounds like a death sentence. It’s still dark outside, so we are hidden from any potential night owls who might still be awake. I do hear a low conversation coming from somewhere in the home- a few people playing Kings at, what must now be 5 in the morning. 

We sneak out from the side door, into the cool Autumn morning. The sky is a mix of ink darkness and penetrating twilight that chases it to make way for the inevitable sun. The trees whisper as we walk down the street devoid of any life. The sounds of our footsteps echoing. There’s something supernatural about the vacancy of early mornings. Like the world around us is dead; just us two wandering souls making our way through the darkness. I want to enjoy this moment…

“Wait,” he stops, “you look like you’re going to puke.”

“Pukins for pussy,” I wave him off, even though my stomach seems to agree with him, “I don’t throw up when I’m hungover.”

“Cloud, I really like you,” he stresses each word, “but I swear to God, if you throw up in my car, Imma be pissed.”

“I’m fine. I just need to eat something, maybe get some water. Kill myself. I don’t know.”

“Okay first off. The suicide comments, no longer funny; sorry,” he shrugs my irate t face away, “Second, it’s five am, where can we get something to eat?”

“Bro, it’s New York City. Everything is fucking open.” I point dramatically to my left, “There’s a deli down the street we can go to.”

“Where?”

“Just take Reid down. It turns into McClean Avenue and it’s at the intersection of McClean and Sand Lane.”

“Those words mean absolutely nothing to me.”

“Holy shit, Reno,” I run both hands through my completely wrecked hair, “Just go straight and we’ll hit it.”

“Someone’s real demanding when it’s not his car.”

“I’ll pay,” I groan.

“Oh, well in that case…right this way, Mr. Strife.” He opens the passenger door for me and I topple inside like a boulder. 

It’s not even a minute drive to the deli. It has a name, on the green awning in big white letters lit up from fluorescent lights:  **Market Place** . And under it:  _ Deli, grocery, beer.  _ But it’s still just called a deli. And there’s all different little shops like these, with different names, but the same products. And they are all called delis. And such is the law on Staten Island. But Reno struggles with this and keeps asking me what I meant by deli. And his questions sound like little bullets that grate against my sinus bone. 

“Do you mean convenience store?” He questions, with his accent almost exaggerated, “Why do you keep callin’ it a deli?”

“Because that’s what we call it in Staten Island. It’s a deli because there’s a deli counter. Or bodega. Some people call it bodegas. But bodegas are smaller and have cats. This one doesn’t have a cat.”

“Why the hell are there cats in the bodega?”

“The question is, why aren’t there more cats in bodegas?”

He stares at me like I’m speaking another language. “Are you still fucking drunk?”

I think. “Probably.”

“What the fuck did you drink? We weren’t apart for  _ that _ long?”

“All of it.”

“All of what?”

“Everything.”

He looks around like he’s in the twilight zone, mumbles a “oh my god” and gets out of the car. I follow him, the sweet smell of trash fills my nose, like a familiar friend. There’s a few random people outside the deli, who I admit look seedy. But Reno stops and gives them a second look; which is his first mistake, obviously new to the scene. Second rule, do not make eye contact, stop and stare, or even acknowledge the person or persons who are hanging outside the deli. That’s the rule of New York City. Ignore them, they ignore you. 

“Yo,” I snap quietly at him, “let’s go.”

He seems hesitant to leave his car, but he reluctantly follows me making sure the car alarm is armed. The group of men don’t seem to notice us walking in, obviously preoccupied with rolling something in their hands. The fluorescent lights pierce my eyes, a sharp contrast from the sunless morning. To our right, the deli counter, in which this place gets its name, the middle there’s a coffee machine, some pastries, and a dirty slurpie station. The cashier is to our left, who greets me enthusiastically. He’s seen me many mornings with the same weary look in my eyes. There’s four aisles worth of basic groceries. Some name brands, some suspicious off brands. It smells of bleach and cigarettes. They TV plays the morning news with incorrect subtitles struggling to keep up. 

Reno looks absolutely stiff as he stands right behind me, scanning the entire location as if expecting someone to jump him. And I can’t help but smile at his face fraught with concern. 

“Ima order for the both of us,” I say, “Trust me, you’re going to like this.”

“I better like it,” he mumbles following me to the deli counter, where the bored worker nods in my direction. 

“Two baconeggandcheesessaltpepperketchup.”

The worker nods, “Rolls, senor?”

“Si.”

I turn at Reno who is blinking rapidly. “Excuse me, what the fuck did you just order?   
  


“You have to order it fast or it doesn’t count,” I snicker. 

“I barely understood what you said!”

“Not my fault you’re from a place where ‘ya’ll talk slow.’” I mock his accent and he looks furious. 

“At least ya’ll understand us! New Yorkers talk like it’s a race!”

“It is, so keep up.”

I leave the deli counter so senor can work his magic. I notice Reno doesn’t immediately follow me, probably confused on why I’m not waiting, but I need a drink- one that does not contain alcohol. And mints since I’m sure my breath has seen better days. I peruse the last aisle, the chill from the refrigerator system offering some relief for the pungent heat of the overall deli. Reno skids into the aisle, trying to act like he wasn’t flustered, confused, and antsy. I wonder why Rude, who I expect lived on Staten Island his whole life, didn’t give the red-head the grand tour. But I remember, we are a far cry from Todt Hill. This is Arrochar/South Beach. Down one block are the projects, down another block are small middle class houses which are all clones of each other. Everyone here is blue collar- electricians, plumbers, police officers, or firefighters- or crack heads. And I don’t mean that offensively. I mean literal people smoking crack outside by the dumpster over here. He’s lucky it’s five am and not three am. 

Now, that’s a sight. 

I grab a bottle of water and a cherry coke. Reno seems to be looking through the Gatorade and finally settles on orange- good choice, I note. 

We head back to the cashier, placing our items on the counter to wait for our sandwiches. Reno knits his eyebrows together. “Cherry soda, are you serious?”

“What?”

“How can you drink that hungover? It tastes like shit.”

I shrug, “I like cherry soda. Don’t be a hater.”

“Oh, I’m hating. That shit’s nasty.”

“You’re nasty,” I mumble weakly. He laughs. 

“Nice comeback,  _ cherry soda boy _ .” And his eyes light up and I mouth a dark no at him. “Oh, I like that.”

“No, don’t you dare call me that.”

“Oh, I am definitely calling you that.”

“That’s such a stupid name!”

“Cherry soda boy has a nice ring to it and it pisses you off.”

“Bro, that sounds like a porno!”

“What kind of porn do you watch?” he’s laughing and I want to find some witty comeback to get him back, but my brain still resembles mush and all I can muster is a snappy “fuck you” and which just makes him laugh louder. 

“You’re shit a nicknames,” I counter. 

“I'm changing your name in my phone to that,” he chuckles as he takes out his phone. I’m about to argue more, but I see our food being waved by my man and I let Reno have this one win for the day. 

The cashier counts the items, his name is Amir and he’s been working here since we started partying in the neighborhood. He usually sells us our beer at night then our hangover food in the morning. He comments on my looks, “Rough night?” he asks with an amused smirk, which I nod in agreement. He pushes the mints at me “forgetting” to add them, offering me a wink and a strange look at Reno, who's too busy trying to get my name changed to register what’s happening around him. Amir then turns and points at the Marlboro Menthols. I nod, not really hurting for them but not going to turn down a favor. I point at Reno’s hair, who snaps his eyes at me, and Amir nods and pulls out a pack of reds. 

“Seventeen dollars,” he rings up. And I hand him a crumbled twenty. 

“What are you guys best friends,” Reno comments, seeing the packs of cigarettes being placed in a plastic bag.

“Obviously,” I nod towards Amir, “He’s my brother.”

I grab the plastic bags, bid my brother a goodbye- who replies that he’ll see me next weekend- and we head back to the car. The light from the still distant sun struggles to break through the endless night. The concerning individuals have vacated the area, and there’s not another soul in the parking lot except for us. Reno decides to not eat in his car, because he doesn't want to get it filthy, even though he smokes like a fifty year old Russian widow in the luxury vehicle. We lean against the back of the black car, like we did this past week in front of the school. Except there’s no worry about someone running out to lecture us on our choices, or recognizing and starting rumors about us. 

He unwraps the sandwich looking at it as if he’s never seen a bacon egg and cheese before. “Okay, what am I about to put in my mouth, Strife?”

“It’s a New York delicacy. Trust me.”

“It looks like a bacon, egg and cheese…”

“Just fucking eat it.”

He scowls at me before taking a bite. We eat in silence. I admire the scenery of the fire house across the street, with a few firefighters gathered outside to direct their truck in the garage. The cars with drivers huffing impatiently, as if this little set back will ruin their entire day. A few people waiting at the bus stop to head to their weekend jobs, looking blank and emotionlessly as they stare into eternity. I take note of the one girl on her walk of shame, in last night's clothes that glimmer against the grey morning hue. The sounds of horns honking. People shout-talking. The bridge peaks over the town houses, its red lights like eyes that bear down on us in silent judgement. People call this place Alcatraz- once you enter Staten Island, you don’t leave. The four bridges like barbed wire fences. Surrounded by green filthy water that connects to better places. To Brooklyn, to Manhattan. Not Jersey though; no one wants to be in New Jersey. 

I’ve thought about leaving my entire life, but never considered I would live long enough to make my escape. But I’m suddenly faced with an idea. Thinking about my actual future. My father’s burning questions about College, majors, career. Decisions I feel shouldn’t be placed in the hands of a sixteen-year-old. But what if I actually applied myself? Could College be my ticket out of this dump?

Reno throws out his trash, “You win. That shit was good.”

“Told you,” I finish up, “it’s magical.”

“Okay, let’s not get crazy,” he pulls out his cigarettes for the traditional after meal smoke all addicts look forward to. “It’s good, but it’s a bacon egg and cheese.”

“Yeah but it’s a  _ New York _ baconeggandcheese.”

“You New Yorkers and your food. Shit,” he lights up and hands me the lighter, “if I hear the pizza argument one more time.”

“Shouldn’t even be an argument, New York has the best pizza. That’s just a fact.”

He shakes his head, “I’m going to leave you here.”

I realize I smile easier when he’s around. 

And I do feel like a weight has been lifted. My jaw finally unclenched. 

And there are words that have been on the tip of my tongue for a week. And maybe now, far away from home, and school, and our friends who don’t know our secrets, underneath the dome of gray clouds, would be a good time. 

“Can I ask you something personal?”

He tilts his head, staring off into space, “Yes, Cloud, the rumors are true: I have a huge dick.” I stare at him, unamused but not exactly complaining, and he shoots me an enticing smile that sends warm vibrations down my spine. “Go for it.”

“When did you realize you were…” I wave my cigarette around him, creating a circle of black smoke. He pushes me to continue with his eyes. “You know. You?”

He sits on the question for a minute. “Five,” he muses, “I was a little  _ too _ into the red power ranger.”

I roll my eyes, “That doesn't count, everyone liked the red ranger.”

“No no, I didn’t just like him. Or wanted to be the red ranger. I would imagine, in my head, that I was being held captive or in some kind of danger and the Red Ranger would have to save me.”

“You had a damsel in distress fantasy?” I laugh. “That’s fucking adorable.”

“What? I was like five. I didn’t know any better.” 

“So the White Ranger wasn’t your thing?”

“Nah, overrated. Jason was the O.G. The original leader. Tommy stole his position and his girl.”

“I think I liked Rocky better,” I ponder. Reno shakes his head and cigarette at me. 

“Jason is better than Rocky, this is not up for debate,” he pauses to laugh at himself.

“I actually always preferred the blue ranger, Billy,” then a memory from my childhood smacks me up the head and I trail off. My eyes falling to the dirty concrete. 

“No kidding?”

“Yeah but,” The shame rumbles in my stomach, “Sephiroth told me only faggots like the blue ranger so I had to change my favorite to the red ranger. Couldn’t be White, that was his.”

Reno’s jaw drops, “He didn’t use that word at five.”

“We were, I don’t know, six? And yeah. He knew what that word meant. Probably heard it from his dad.”

“Shit,” he looks unsure, “That’s pretty fucked up.” Then he clicks his tongue, “The more shit you tell me, the more I understand why you are so far in denial.”

I nod absentmindedly. “Yeah, not very accepting of alternative lifestyles up here.”

“Tennessee isn’t much better,” he says bitterly, “I thought New York was more progressive. But I guess Staten Island hasn’t exactly caught up to the rest of the city.”

“Yup.” We both fall into a thoughtful silence; not awkward in the least bit. As if both thinking of the aggression that has followed us around, the words people spewed without a second thought, or knowing or caring how they affect the people around them. Both trailing our own experiences. Recalling the path that leads through hateful tones, side eyes, reminders of our doomed journey. Sewing our mouths shut to keep from screaming. Ripping ourselves open for some form of relief. But now we stand here, able to be authentic. Trying to undo the years of damage. So I continue, since he’s allowed me this far. “Seriously, though. When did you  _ really _ know?”

He smirks, “Lynette.” He chuckles at the memory, taking a long drag before he continues. “Sixth grade. We were playing spin the bottle Theresa Larson’s house. I got stuck making out with this manky eyed chick Lynette.”

“Manky eyed?”

“We would say her left eye was trying to escape.”

“You’re fucking terrible!”

“Her breath smelled like garlic.”

“Jesus…”

“Turned me off to chicks and garlic.”

Reno looks serious, even with the smile on his face. Eyes dancing to me waiting for my response. “You’re shitting me…”

“Yes and no,” he elaborates, “I realized while I was trapped in seven minutes in hell that making out with girls wasn’t my thing. It wasn’t even that she was shoving her tongue down my throat. I felt nothing. Maybe a little sick. But other than that. Nada. But that same night, I was dared to kiss my buddy, Gunner. We were like fuck it? Right? Who cares. It was a quick peck and  _ that _ …” he pauses as if experiencing the moment again, “felt like something.”

His lips are still curved upwards, but his eyes fell to the side; sad dark blues. And I know that feeling well. 

But I also take mental note that Gunner wasn’t the name he uttered back at the house, and maybe there was more to the story. But he can hold on to that for another day. 

“So,” he begins, “do I get to ask you something personal now?”

I know what’s coming. I knew when I asked him the first question; and I’m prepared. And like him, I take one more long drag of my cigarette, exhale into the misty morning dew hoping some of my fear would fly away and disappear into the clouds. “Go for it.”

A tense pause for three seconds, I side eye him and he looks like he wants to back track suddenly. I’m confused, but before I can even change my mind, he asks the question that has been caught in his throat since we met: “What...are you, exactly?”

I tear my eyes from him, roll the question in my head. Lecture my jaw which has decided to lock up. I’ve never said it outloud before. I barely allowed the phrase to run tracks in my brain. Feeling if I buried it with my memories of Zack, I would never have to acknowledge the reality. Of who I am. 

My heart rushes in my chest. I let my cigarette fall to its death. I still feel the water in my lungs, drowning. But I really, 

Really,

Want to come up for air. 

“I’m gay.”

The breath I took after, felt like my first. 

And the world didn’t end. And I didn’t fall apart.

I’m smiling. 

“Wow.” His voice simmering with admiration. Our eyes meet; his sparkle, lips in a half smile. 

“What?” I inquire. 

“Nothing...I’m just really proud of you.”

Warmth. Like I’m laying out in the sun. Gliding on the clear water that looks like two pearls that stare at me. But he does do a 360 turn, making sure the parking lot, street, are empty before pulling me into a supportive hug. Our bodies meet. Wrapped in each other's arms. And it feels like a firework going off near my ear. An explosion followed by tingles that rock through my nervous system. The best I’ve felt in years. 

He pulls back only slightly, running fingers through my hair, and whispers in my ear. “I’m gay to, by the way, in case I didn’t make it obvious.” 

“Woah, no way,” I say sarcastically, “Couldn’t tell.”

We untangle from each other, taking a few steps back, and trying to regain our cool exteriors. Reminding ourselves we’re just two dudes, who are friends, and only friends. The sun finally cracks through the horizon; yellows tickling the sky in the distance. And the dome of security, the safety of the twilight, evaporates.

“Okay, well,” he finally says, “I don’t know about you, but that was a lot, so I need to fucking go to bed.”

“Yeah shit,” feeling my eyes grow heavy. “You think you know how to get back?”

“No, so you’re going to stay up and tell me.” He unlocks the doors, “Better drink up that cherry soda, kid.” 

* * *

I’m woken up by a hard slap on the chest, that knocks the sleep out of me.

“Ow you fuck,” I bite viciously grabbing my pained chest. 

“Don’t be a baby,” Reno counters, “I barely touched you.”

I adjust the new morning light and recognize the street we parked on- my house to my right, standing shrouded in darkness. I managed to get him to 4 Corners Road, through half opened eyes and barely knowing how to get us back- a fact he kept mocking me of:  _ you lived here your whole life and don’t know how to get home?  _ But I must have completely fallen asleep; and not one of those pure black sleeps that help recharge the batteries. The foggy in between conscious and unconscious sleep. Where everything feels frozen, like pressing pause on the T.V. The music, a band I couldn’t recognize through the haze, sounded warped- haunting even. 

“You’re a bad co-pilot, Strife,” he mocks.

I’m exhausted and can’t fight back, so I respond with a middle finger in his face. I murmur a few motivational sayings to get my brain working so I can stumble out of the car, find my keys, get in the basement and pass out. But all of that seems like too much work.

Reno leans against his seat, his body turned to face me, eyes also look heavy. Part of me wished we were still on the bed, in the strangers home, curled against each other. From the way he reaches over slowly and caresses my fingers, he might feel the same way. 

“So, what now?” I ask, taking a hold of his hand and grazing my thumb over his bruised knuckles. I eye his bruises with concern; small black and blues, and cuts that have scabbed. He doesn’t flinch at my touch, but I feel the way his hand tenses around mine. 

He grunt rattles from his throat. “Yeah, I guess we should talk about that,” he announces with such conviction, my brain wakes up just a bit more. “I’ll lay it all out for you, but...I don’t want you to give me an answer; because you’re riding high and anything you say will be what you feel in this moment and may not be what’s right for you.”

“Who died and made you boss of my emotions?” I retort and he chuckles. 

“Fair, but just consider thinking about it.” He waits for my nod, my acceptance of the terms. “Okay. Remember when I tried explaining how I felt when I first bumped into you and you acted like a complete jackass about it?”

“Me? A jackass? Never…” my voice trails off because he doesn’t look back at me with those amused blues; instead they are creased with seriousness. 

“What I was trying to tell you then: I bumped into you and felt  _ something _ almost instantly. Like a fucking shot to my head. And I thought maybe you felt it too?” 

“Yeah, I did.” I assure him without hesitation. Because there’s no longer a reason to hide. 

Confidence restored in his voice, that trembled and quaked, but he removes his hand from mine. “My ex did a number on me,” he drags his teeth over his lips as if punishing them. His voice vibrating with vicious acrimony, “He never knew what he wanted. Some days, he was clingy as  _ fuck _ ; if I didn’t answer my phone on the first ring, he would call twenty more times then threaten to out me. The other days, he would convince me I was  _ forcing _ him to be gay. I was the snake in the garden- his words. I ain’t that poetic. I try to break up with him; he begs me not to leave or he’ll kill himself. Only to break up with me a week later because he changed his mind about being gay. Like it’s a fucking choice or something.”

He exhales. A inappropriate laugh leaves his throat, and he runs his hands through his hair and looks at the ceiling of the car as if the offending party was hiding somewhere in the vehicle. “Have you heard the story of Chernobyl?” I nod and he drops his hands onto his lap with a stoic grin. “That relationship was an unstable nuclear reactor. And I had plenty of warnings, but I just kept ignoring the obvious until...” He makes an explosion gesture. “...and that was just the beginning. The aftermath was worse.” 

“I’m...sorry.”

Reno shrugs and shakes his head. “It is what it is.” Then he looks at me, my face awashed with concern, and he relaxes his shoulders. He takes a minute to study my eyes, that press him to continue. “I was pretty much okay with never dating anyone, ever again. Not worth the trouble, you know? But now, all I can think about is how bad I wish your breath didn’t stink so I could kiss you.” 

Pause. 

He starts laughing when my face contorts in disgust. 

Whiplash from the sudden shift in his tone. I figure this is his defense mechanism kicking in, because even though he’s smiling at me, I note the pain the lingers behind his eyes. 

“Is that your attempt at flirting?” I grimace. 

“Sorry,” he tries to control himself, “No really. I’m sorry. I really suck at flirting, apparently.”

“Confirmed.”

He regains his composer and swallows the rest of the humor. “Seriously, though. I really like you, Cloud. I don’t know if the eyes- probably a lot with the eyes, got a thing for innocent looking blue eyes- or how fast you run your mouth to everyone. Especially the teachers, and flip them off when they give you detention like you’re some kinda badass- though I don’t know who you’re kiddin’. It’s ten percent of the accent. And forty percent your smile. But mostly, and maybe this is selfish, but it's the way you make me feel when you’re around. Like I’m alive again.”

It feels like my heart flatlines.

Like everything pauses for a moment. .

No one’s ever said anything like that to me. And I bask in the glow of his words. For a few moments,

Because I feel a “but” hidden somewhere, on the tip of his tongue, ready to bring me back to reality. 

“But,” he continues, “this can’t go anywhere if you aren’t a hundred percent confident in who you are. Because I am not doing the same song and dance I did for almost  _ two years _ : where one minute my ex is all about me, and us, and the next he’s crying and calling me a devil. You just came out to yourself about fifteen minutes ago. Maybe you’ll change your mind tomorrow. I want to trust that you won’t but, I also don’t want to push you into something you’re not ready for.”

I don’t tell him immediately that I understand that feeling, though maybe not delivered in the same toxic manner. I know the burn of embarrassment when someone you trust with your secrets throws that trust in your face and sets you both on fire. So I get where he’s coming from, even if in the moment, as he expected, I want to challenge him. But his concerns are valid. 

I pull the pack of cigarettes I bought for him and place it on top of the glove compartment. “Deal.”

He places his hand over mine, momentarily linking our fingers together before dragging them away to grab the red and white pack. I look at the empty space between us; feel like an entire ocean. 

And I wonder what it’ll feel like when that space no longer exists. Will it be Chernobyl, or will it be fireworks?

I hope for the latter, but I have to acknowledge the actual situation; not just the doubt that lingers over us like a storm cloud. But where we live. The people who we associate with; his parents, who through broken conversations and subtle hints, I assume are not as supportive. My own friend, best friend, who swims like a shark around me, waiting for the moment that I dip my leg into the cold water so he can eat me alive. Chew me up. Spit me out to the mockery of  _ his  _ friends. 

But maybe, it’ll be worth all of that, just to steal a few more moments with Reno.

“Thanks for the ride and everything else.” I open the door, not daring to look at him because I might continue to delay the inevitable, and exit the car.

“No problem, cherry-”

I swing around and glare at him from out the door, “I swear to fucking Christ if you call me that I’m ending shit before it even starts.”

And his laugh is mocking; sputters like a jet engine. Like he doesn’t take me seriously for a second. And I guess he never had. He sees right through me, the layers that hold me upright. But I don’t mind that, anymore. He can have it all.

His eyes glow against the orange and pink light of morning. “Alright, killer, don’t get your panties in a bunch.” Then he puts his car in drive, “I’ll see you soon, then,  _ pretty boy _ .”

I smirk, “You will,  _ handsome fella.” _

I shut the door before I hear him criticize my nicknaming skills. But commit the relax look on his face to memory and head into my house- through the front door. Because I don’t care if my parents are awake and see me walking in way too early in the morning to be acceptable. I don’t care if my dad wants to try to lecture me on my life choices, my whereabouts. And I don’t care if my mom and I encounter each other on the stairs, both stumbling with brewing hangovers. I don’t care about the consequences of my actions this time; but not because I’m high on drugs I shouldn’t be abusing. 

I am a stone structure. Unable to crack. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STORY TIME!  
> So when I original wrote Cherry Soda Boy, I had no real purpose for the title. It was nonsense. I was drinking A LOT OF Cherry Vanilla Coke which came out around that time. I realized that I needed a reason for the title, so in the OG (if any of the previous fans remember) I SHOEHORNED a STUPID scene of them at the diner. It was...I don't know. I re-read and face slapped myself. Anyway, when I started re-writing, my husband thought the name was stupid and urged me to changed it. But I was like "Nah chill, son." You can't change the title of an established story like this. So I came up with this scene during one of my many "pacing around the apartment laughing at my internal dialog" moments. Hopefully, it makes more sense now. Also, the "it sounds like a porn" was a comment I received from a classmate of mine back in senior year. She was into some kinky porn. 
> 
> P.S This was such a fun chapter to write because that deli is MY deli that I always go to. And Amir is MY BOY! And I miss him and hope he is doing well. I'm driving down to Staten Island this weekend so I'm going to try to get a BECSPK from that deli this weekend and relive my teenage/early 20s. 
> 
> Hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! Leave a comment, leave a KUDOS if you haven't. Peep the comments and check out the picture BoundlessAether drew because it's life!


	13. Alright Ramblers, Let's get Rambling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walls come crashing down during an intense game of beer pong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Self Harm mention

Chapter Thirteen: “Alright Ramblers, let’s get Rambling.”

I try slicking my hair back; it’s short enough now to make it look moderately acceptable. But everytime I try, I think I look like a baby-face version of Rufus Shinra and run my fingers through it to mess it up. I stare at myself in the mirror and look at the picture of the character I’m supposed to emulate, convinced no one at this party is going to catch on to what we are trying to do. Cid pokes his head into the bathroom.

“Bro!” he shouts, “If you don’t slick your hair back, it isn’t going to work.”

“Bullshit,” I snap, “Mr. Blonde doesn’t even have blonde hair. It doesn’t matter.”

“Wait,” Tifa pauses, sitting on her bed tying her pleather dress shoes. “I thought I was Mr. Blonde?”

Cid rubs his face, growing red with frustration. This will be the fifth time he has to explain it to everyone, as if we didn’t just watch  _ Reservoir Dogs _ yesterday. Everyone has gathered in Tifa’s bedroom, which she occupies in the basement of her house. Her step-dad built it for her as an apology of sorts for knocking up her mom a second time; something Tifa had no right to be pissed about, but after twelve years of it just being her and her mom, and now needing to share that attention with a three year old sibling, and now a one year old, she started acting out. This was David’s way of appeasing the teenage angst and smoothing things over with his step-daughter. It’s a sweet spot. She has her own side entrance, which leads directly to the staircase to the basement. To the left, is the laundry room that the whole family uses, so she doesn’t have a hundred percent privacy. The left is a small hallway with a storage closet, the boiler, and a small complete bathroom- where I currently stand trying to put the finishing touches. 

Her room takes up the rest of the basement and about the size of a small studio. She has a hand-me-down leather sofa and recliner, a coffee table she painted black with a shelf underneath for all her video games. When the family bought a new T.V, she inherited the old one which currently has the Rock music station on as we all get ready. Then her bed and dressers near two huge storage closets. She painted the whole place a blood red and insisted on black area rugs over the cement tile that prevents mold when the place floods once a year. 

I exit the bathroom with Cid who stands in the center of the room about to make his announcement, again. Barret sits on the recliner, playing around with his phone, Vinny staring at himself in the full length mirror trying to adjust his tie. 

“Okay, I’m going to say this  _ one more time _ , so fucking pay attention,” he thunders, “Cloud is Mr. Blonde, because of his blonde hair, I’m Mr. Orange because I’m a cop’s son, so obviously, I would be the cop, Barrett is Mr. White because he would definitely have my back in that situation-”

“Are you sure about that?” Barret grumbles, Cid completely ignoring him.

“Vinny is Mr. Pink because that’s his favorite color. Tifa you’re  _ Mr. Brown _ because I said so.”

“Ugh,” she groans, “I don’t want to be Mr. Brown, sounds like Mr. Shit.”

“See, that’s exactly what Mr. Brown would say!” He exclaims. Slapping his hands together for emphasis. 

“Don’t forget me!” Yuffie pipes up, who I completely forgot was here and a part of our group costume. She skips over to Barret and tries sitting on the arm of his chair, and he shifts closer to the edge to escape. 

“Right, you’re Mr. Blue, who is obviously an extremely important character and doesn’t die instantly,” Cid rolls his green-blue eyes. “Does everyone get who they are?”

“Wait,” I scratch my head, “Who am I again?”

“Fuck off.” He chucks a pillow at my face. “And don’t you dare lose that straight razor I gave ya.”

I pull out the weapon and fling it open. Everyone’s eyes snap towards me, except Cid who now walks over to Tifa and tries to fix her tie. The handle, a soft black wood, fits comfortably in my hand. The sharpened blade made of real steel glimmers against the basement lights and engraved with C.B.H. I admire the craftmanship, never used before. He told me his dad gave it to him for his thirteenth birthday, seven months before he went to work and never came home. It lived in the bottom of his nightstand until this morning, when he handed it to me with threats of my demise should I misplace it. I run my thumb over the handle again. I had one of these once; but I lost that privilege. 

“Shit, Strife,” Barret blurts out, “your tie looks like shit! Get over here.” He jumps from the couch, to Yuffie’s frown, and shoves me back into the bathroom roughly. I untie my piss-poor attempt and hand him the black fabric. I forget how tall he is compared to me, towering over me like a skyscraper and built like one. His dark eyes narrow as he begins the process of fixing me up so I can be shown in public. “Didn’t your dad ever teach you how to tie a fucking tie? You’re a mess.”

I shrug, “my dad barely taught me how to shave.”

“Can you even grow a beard?” He laughs, “you may have grown a few inches, shorty, but you still look twelve.”

“Thanks, buddy,” I mutter, bringing my eyes to his fingers as he loops and swoops into an acceptable knot. 

When he finishes, he momentarily admires his handiwork, then slaps me on the shoulders. “You good, man?” I notice his eyes flash towards the razor next to the sink, then back to me. 

I push forth a weary smile, pretending I don’t know what he’s trying to get at. “Yeah, man, I’m always good.” While right in this moment, I am  _ good _ , and for the first time not thinking about using this night to drown my woeful sorrows; instead anticipating seeing a certain someone, who I changed to “Hot Tamale” in my phone after I finally had a nickname that pissed him off. But I know I haven’t  _ always  _ been good. I’ve barely hung on. And I’m sure if I wasn’t riding this natural hide, that straight razor would be too tempting. 

And Barret, who never explicitly addressed my attempt, though he’s seen the scars before, suddenly stares down at me. Eyebrows curved with concern. “Everyone’s worried about you. No one wants to bring it up, though.”

I flinch. “What do you mean?” 

“You lied to us about Johnny’s party. And you lied to us about  _ what you did _ there,” his voice waves with disappointment, “And then last weekend, you looked like you were trying to get alcohol poisoning. If Cid hadn’t been actin’ more a fool than you, I’d probably would have dragged you outta there by your hair. You can’t keep blackin’ out like that. You’re drinkin’ like you have a…” He stops. He pats my shoulders again. “I’m not good at this shit. But no one else wants to talk to you about it.”

I can’t look him in the eyes. I didn’t even consider my actions had consequences that affected my friends. And it sounds like they’ve been discussing this on their own. And I’m surprised Tifa isn’t the one in here, giving me the lecture like a parent to child. Or even Cid, who would be more brash and angry as opposed to the even tones of Barret. Or maybe he nominated himself; son of a Psychology professor and social worker. Maybe his words hold more meaning. 

“Yeah,” I button my suit jacket trying to find something to say to make him confident I won’t abuse these privileges again. “I know. I’m working’ through some shit. But if it makes you feel better, I’m stickin to beer tonight. No liquor, definitely no whiskey.” I bring my eyes to his, he doesn’t look convinced, “I promise, I’m not getting fucked up tonight. I just want to have fun with you guys and play some beer pong.”

I hate knowing my friends’ concerns should be motivation enough to keep myself in check but it’s not. But Reno and I had a conversation in the bathroom during our lunch break yesterday. He sat on the window sill looking at the cloudy afternoon sky. I had just told him about the party, this time at Cissnei’s house, and he had already heard about it through Elena. His face blank. Eyes sunken in and narrowed. I recalled how he brought his cigarette to his mouth and looked down on the floor when he exhaled. He was stiff. Stiffer than he had been in the last week. He had built up a guard around himself, I guess to keep himself for relinquishing on the deal, he created, prematurely. But this was different. And I know the last two times we attended a party, I didn’t look impressive. I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes. I couldn’t. And he asked, “Are you going to get real fucked again?” Almost like it became an expectation. But I promised I wouldn’t- and this would be a deal breaker. 

“Aight,” Barret says after studying my face- maybe looking for a hint of a lie. “But you start acting like a fuckin’ moron, and I’m sendin your ass home.”

I force a laugh. “Got you, man.” 

We exchange our handshake, high five and half hug, but he holds it for a second longer which is extremely not like him. I feel a weight form in my chest, and wish I wasn’t a disappointment to my friends. 

  
  


It takes us an hour to leave the house once our costumes are complete. Mostly because Tifa’s mother insists on taking several pictures of us as a group to add to the collection- a tradition that started when we were three and were dressed up as Cinderella and Prince Charming. The next year, Beauty and The Beast, then Power Rangers with Sephiroth. We tried to keep the group costumes going even as the group expanded. In 2002, we did a sick  _ Star Wars _ group costume: Tifa as Leia, Cid as Han, Barret as Chewy, me as Luke, and Sephiroth as Darth Vadar. Vinny wasn’t involved because he wanted to do the Matrix since he already had the black trench coat. 2003, however, Sephiroth decided dressing up was for pussys. Vinny and Aerith took his place and we did horror movie icons: Barrett was Jason, Cid was Freddy, Tifa did a creepy Samara Morgan, while Aerith donned a ghost face costume, I was Michael Myers, and Vinny kept it simple with the O.G, Dracula. 

We debated for weeks on what we wanted to do; Yuffie insisting on being a part of the costume, even though Jessie would have been the obvious choice. However, due to my own mistakes, Jessie has kept her distance from the group. We finally decided on  _ Reservoir Dogs  _ when Cid wanted an excuse to wear a suit and carry a fake gun, and we were tired of thinking. 

We finally make our way towards the door, saying our goodbyes to the Lockheart-Sanders family. David calls out after us, “Barret, make sure Tifa gets home okay!”

He gives Tifa’s step-dad a thumbs up and a smile. Cid, who can’t keep his mouth shut, shouts back, “Hey! Why just Barret, you think we can’t keep her safe!”

“Barret is the only one I trust,” David waves us along, “He’s the most responsible. Cloud.” He snaps his eyes towards me, “I better not find you drunk in my daughters bedroom again.”

The god damn irony. Little did he know I was the least likely in this group of guys to do anything vulgar to his daughter. But I’m not trying to wake up with a gun in my face again, so I shout back “Yes sir.” And we make the walk to the Staten Island train. Tifa lives in Midland beach, right near the train so it’s about a ten minute walk. The cool evening air offers relief from the warmth of our suits. And I do say, we look pretty good for a bunch of misfits, and I’m impressed with the girls for forgoing the usual skin tight costumes and playing along in their own suits. Some people honk their horns at us and give a thumbs up- and everytime Cid’s smile grows. Cid and I both love Halloween, one of the things that solidified our friendship. We started watching horror movies together, which helped with my anxiety. Something about living vicariously through traumatic situations helped quell my fear of the real world. Having Cid be an added comfort got me over a lot of shit. 

And with Halloween falling on a Sunday, we get to enjoy the mischief night at a party in Grimes Hill. 

I did ask Reno what he was being, but he kept telling me it was a secret. I checked my phone right before we hop on the train. He pops up:  **where u at, son?** I try to hide the smile, don’t want anyone getting nosy about why I keep checking my phone. I quickly text back:  **there in 15.** The train jerks forward and we’re on our way. My heart races in my chest, and I rub my hands together, shaking my leg, as if preparing for a big game. A good kind of nervousness wells inside me; and Vinny, who sits across from me, seems to be the only one taking notice. But he doesn’t draw attention to me. Instead he quietly nods his head as if he can hear my thoughts- and sometimes I wonder if he could. 

We get off at the Old Town Road stop. There’s a deli not too far and we send Barret, who looks the most mature, to grab the beer. He hates being the one in charge of this task. “You know if the cops show up, I’m getting tased, bro.”

“I have my PBA card,” Cid argues back, “I’ll just cry about my dad and they’ll leave us alone.”

Barret and I exchange a look. Recalling a year ago when we walked to Cid’s house at night and were stopped by two cops. Hands on the car, frisked. Asked if I knew Barret. He matched a description. They questioned us for entirely too long until Cid finally walked up after waiting for us, flashed his card, and turned out one of the guys used to work with his dad. They sent us on our way with smiles on their faces. But Barret unfortunately looks the most adult and thus the least likely to get IDed.

So, he begrudgingly gets the alcohol and we travel up the hill to Cissnei’s. The party already in full swing, though no one outside to keep pesky neighbors from prematurely calling the police, but we can hear the music bumping from inside. Everyone from our school, and a few sporadic kids from Tifa’s, are in attendance. Everyone holds a red solo cup in their hands. Loud conversations threatening to over power the ‘90s music that Cissnei has playing on her Ipod, which was the theme of tonight's get together. Almost everyone followed through; we have some Power Rangers, the cast of the  _ Matrix _ , about three ghostfaces, and the Spice Girls. 

I’m taking everything in when I hear his voice. “Well shit, what goes on over here?” 

I turn and see Reno and Rude approach us, also wearing black suits and sunglasses that nearly match ours. 

“Oye,” Cid barks, “Who are you supposed to be?”

Reno and Rude exchange a look, a smirk, then whip out two small silver rods. 

“Aw shit,” Barret chuckles, “ _ Men in Black? _ ” 

“You don’t really look like Tommy Lee Jones,” I say to Reno. He looks good in the suit, that’s for sure. Putting more care into it than he does his own uniform. He rips off his sunglasses, his playful blues on me. His hair put in the usual faux-hawk that he rocks, standing in several different directions. He looks me up and down. 

“And who are ya’ll supposed to be?” He scans each member of our group.

“Guess.” Cid bites back at him. 

“Funeral directors?” Rude offers, looking at Barret who shakes his head. 

“ _ Reservoir Dogs!”  _ Yuffie squeals, and places her hands on her hips “You ever heard of it?”

The two guys infront of us exchange a look and start laughing at our expense. Or at Yuffie’s complete lack of self-awareness. Not sure. But I expect something out of Reno when he stops to look at me again. Eyeing my outfit while Rude distracts everyone with questions about which character they are meant to emulate. And I wonder if he knows more than Reno let on the other night, because for a split second, we are granted a shared moment in front of too many people. 

Then Reno starts, voice with snarky sarcasm, “Lemme guess, you’re Mr. Blonde?” 

“Good guess,” I respond. 

“You don’t seem sadistic enough to be Vic Vega,” he takes a sip from his drink. 

I shrug, “That’s exactly what I want people to think.” 

He chugs the rest of his drink, after he looks at me one more time, eyes suggestive. And I wish we were not near all these people. He swallows and looks behind him. “Yo! Tseng and Reeve, get over here. Check this shit out.”

The two other boys walk over, also dressed in the same suits as the rest of us- and it seems, for the moment, that we weren’t as original as I expected. 

“Nice,” Tseng remarks, taking a sip of his own drink, “great movie, one of my personal favorites.”

“Oh shit,” Reeve shifts nervously, looking straight at Barret, who arches an eyebrow. “I told you we shouldn’t have done this.”

“What?” Barret question with an accusatory tone.

Tseng sighs, “He’s concerned because we’re Vincent Vega and Jules.”

“I shouldn’t be Jules,” Reeve mumbles. 

“Why cause you’re white?” Barret barks at him. “Shit man, Vincent ain’t Chinese.”

“Correct,” Tseng agrees, “At least he isn’t in black face.”

Reeve widens his brown eyes, “I would never do that!” He shouts. 

“Chill man,” Reno punches his arm, “Rude already told you it’s cool. Stop sweatin it.”

“Yeah you’re making it awkward, man,” Barret continues, “You’re fine. Fuck. Go get a beer or something before you have a panic attack.”

“Sorry,” Reeve drops his eyes, he looks at Tseng. “I told you I am no Jules.”

Tseng sighs, “Come on, let’s get you drunk so you stop acting like you have a stick up your ass.”

“That kid,” Reno shakes his head as we watch the pair walk into the kitchen, “He’s all wound up.” He turns back to us, moving his eyes between Cid and I. “So, Mr. Blonde and Mr….”

“Orange,” Cid corrects. 

“You would be,” he laughs, “Mr. Blonde and Mr. Orange, J and I want a pong rematch at some point tonight.”

“No distractions this time,” Rude continues. Completely stone. 

“Oh fuck yeah,” Cid shouts, “Yous ready to get your asses beat a second time?”

“We’ll see,” Rude says, but he darts his eyes to Reno who looks at me with a sardonic smile. And I can’t help my sweaty hands or the fact I’m grinning like an idiot right back. We both know we need to step away before everyone else takes notice, and Rude’s rough shoulder check on Reno solidifies that thought. 

“Right partner, gotta get ready,” Reno manages to sputter out, “See you fuckers soon.” 

They walk away. Immediately Tifa begins, “Who are they again? I don’t think I’ve seen the red-head; he’s kinda cute.”

Cid huffs, “Reno, he’s a little bitch and seeing Elena.” 

Hearing her name seizes my chest for a moment. I think back to the way she grabbed his shirt when she interrupted the game. And the way he spoke to her, the flirtatious tone. And my immediate reaction is to get as jealous as Cid is, right now, when Tifa mentions him. But that got me in trouble last time. There’s no point. I’m the one he came looking for. I’m the one he drove home that night. I rationalize with the part of my brain that whispers negative thoughts in my ear and push it away. 

Our group makes ourselves comfortable at the party. Cid finds the beer pong sign up sheet and puts us on. Reno and Rude got there way before us, so it’ll take a while before our name is called. Everyone does a shot, but I turn down the offer, much to Barret’s approval who quickly volunteers to take mine in an effort to keep people from shaming me. I eventually find Sephiroth and his friends, not in costume, in the basement of the house playing flip cup. He grabs a hold of my neck and squeezes me while chastising me when I turn down some pill that’s shoved in my face. Already wasted. His eyes dilated from whatever drug Genesis gave him. Jesse, Biggs, and Wedge are also in the basement, playing a horror movie drinking game. They compliment our outfits and we join them for a moment. 

Jessie, maybe feeling the effects of the alcohol, sits way too close to me. We make small talk about what’s been going on in our lives the last few weeks. She’s preparing for a winter talent show and thinking about quitting her competition cheerleading squad to focus on dance club. She takes sips of her drink, a redbull and vodka, and listens to my pathetic attempt at conversation since, outside of school, I have nothing else going on. Figure she’s more interesting than I am, and maybe, in another life, we could have actually been real friends. But she brushes her hand against my leg, and I twitch because the touch is unwelcomed. I look at Tifa, who leans against Cid, and both are all smiles as Wedge reacts the moment he lost his virginity a few weeks ago. They look so comfortable together, completely forgetting I’m there.

My phone vibrates and I scramble to get it, nearly pushing Jessie off me. She throws me a scowl, and I ignore it when I see the name pop on my phone.  **U n ur boy get ready ;)**

“Yo Cid,” I shout over Wedge’s story and he scrambles to move as far from Tifa as possible. “My spidey-senses are tingling. I think we’re almost up for pong.”

He smirks, “Alright, are you ready to kick their ass,  _ sweetheart _ .”

“You know it,  _ honey _ !” 

We perform our handshake. Which is definitely an over complicated accumulation of different gestures that takes about ten seconds to complete. Everyone stares at us, shaking their heads. We finish off with shotgun beers, using the razor to cut the hole, and jog back up the stairs. A crowd formed in the kitchen and we hear a raucous of laughter and cheers that seem elevated for a beer pong game. But as we move through the cluster of people, we see two girls walk past us: cheeks red, smiles evident, but completely naked except for their pink panties. Cid and I both look- but I guess mine mostly due to shock. And then we look at each other, realizing what we are about to walk into. 

“Cid and Cloud are up next,” Rude groans. 

And Cid turns his mouth into a cheshire grin pushing through the rest of the group to get to the table. “Strip pong, huh?”

Reno and Rude are still completely dressed. A smirk upon the red-head’s face, though Rude doesn’t share his cousin's enthused expression. Cid rubs his hands together and elbows me; he’s been waiting for an excuse to get naked.

“We can’t do strip pong with guys,” Rude shoots his eyes at Reno.

“What? And disappoint the ladies?” Reno nods over at the group of girls who are cheering. 

“Oh, everyone’s seeing my dick tonight,” Cid proclaims. 

“No one wants to see your dick, Highwind!” Rude shouts but a loud female  _ I do _ from the back contradicts that statement, and he throws his hands in the air. 

I’m swaying side to side, eyes looking at the beer pong cups, counting on which articles of clothing I would have to shed to avoid having to drop my boxers, and biting my thumb nail as Rude and Cid negotiate the terms of the game. I dance my eyes to Reno, who feels me pressing him and returns the gaze. I don’t want To play, exactly. But I also see this as a perfect opportunity to see Reno out of his clothes. And I smirk at him, trying to communicate without drawing attention. And he returns the smile. And he must have noted the uncomfortable look in my eyes.

“Okay okay,” Reno gets the attention of the crowd- mostly chicks, debating on which guy they want to see naked. “How about this. We strip until the boxers- sorry Cid, but I ain’t tryin to see your dick-” Cid frowns and mumbles a  _ you gonna _ like a promise. “Then, whoever loses has to jump in the pool.”

He reaches over and flicks on the light that illuminates the backyard. And there’s Cissnei’s pool, still open, at the end of October. We all turn to the girl who has forced her way to the front of the group. “What?” She shrugs, “We never got around to closing it?”

“Shit it’s  _ green _ ,” I lament.

“Are those dead animals?” Reno shakes his head, apparently regretting his compromise. 

“Reno, I swear to fucking  _ God _ , if we lose, I’m kicking your fucking ass.” Rude then glares at Elena who emerges from the crowd with, unfortunately, Aerith and Tifa. Aerith, dressed as Mia Wallace, looks positively horrified; jaw on the floor, green eyes wide. Tifa looks a little more curious. But we’ve come this far. Too late now. 

“Alright,” Cid shakes me trying to pump me up, “Let’s get these fuckers naked, wet, and angry.”

I’m convinced there’s something wrong with him. But I don’t have time to argue, or interrogate him, because two white balls fly into our cups- and the game is afoot. I eye Reno. Something about the way he stands up straight, arms over his chest, but playfully gazing at me has me thinking that he planned this from the moment he challenged us. Introduce it with a bunch of girls first, so it isn’t as suspect when the other set of boys step up. Someone could have easily called one of us out- but then again. I look at Cid, who is all too excited to get his jacket off- he knows that Cid is an exhibitionist. He would be game for it. And no one would dare call Cid out. 

It’s dangerous, though. But something about that danger ignites my nerves. 

Something  _ hot _ about being able to toy with each other in front of all these eyes. 

So when I take my suit jacket off, I make sure to go a little slower- not too much- and snap my eyes at him. My heart racing when he returns the same suggestive look. 

They get a turn again. This time Reno doesn’t bounce and sinks another shot. I remove my tie, which elicited a bored groan from some of the girls in the group. Cid takes off his belt as if preparing for the inevitable. They miss their next shot. And I don’t think I ever concentrated so hard on a game, but I wanted this guy's pants off  _ bad _ . It feels like it’s just the two of us in this room. I get my shot in and Reno takes off his jacket with a flirty smile that makes him look sinister; I can see the vulgar thoughts in his head flash across those ice blue marbles. I get another shot- he mockingly takes off his tie- but I get one more and I see he starts to sweat as he rips off his belt. 

“Oh Cloud is on  _ fire _ ,” Cid approves. And he has no  _ fucking _ idea. 

Cid tried bouncing to fuck with Rude, whose brown eyes are permenately narrowed with anger, and he smacks it away so hard it hits Elena in the face. Everyone, even the blonde girl who rubs her cheek, laughs except him. They get two more shots on us, so I take off my shoes.

“Fuck, Strife, don’t be a pussy,” Reno quipps, but I notice the breathlessness in his voice. That wraps around my last name. And I need to cool down before I have to take my pants off. Which Cid does before me, hoppin on one foot trying to get them off and nearly falling into Tifa. Guy didn’t even take his shirt off yet.

He wears the Irish flag on his boxers. Stands proudly in front of our opponents. 

“You know the Irish aren’t known for their big dicks,” Again Reno, momentarily taking his eyes off me and shooting Cid snarky look. “I don’t know why you’re so excited to show everyone.”

“I’m 2 percent black where it matters,” he proclaims. 

“No you’re not,” Barret roars from the back, “I told you to stop saying that!”

After I get my shoes and socks off, Reno bearing into me with an annoyed look, and between returning and loosing cups, he sinks a shot and I have to choose between shirt and pants. I take a breath. I feel several pairs of eyes on me. Only one that I care about. And I unbutton my shirt- I didn’t bother wearing an undershirt- so I’m about to be half naked in front of him-

And I try not to look.

My heart slams against my chest, and I know my palms are sweaty. 

I remember that I am ridiculously self conscious about my body. 

Screaming fuck in my head as each button comes undone. I can’t believe I let him convince me to do this. So willingly. 

I get my shirt off and I hear Cissnei say “woah.”

And Reno repeats the sentiment with his eyes. That invades the length of my body. 

He mouths  _ fuck _ .

We both exhale, forgetting where we are. And thankfully Cid distracts the both of us by nearly ripping off his shirt with a loud “hazzah.” A few girls shouting “wooo”; And I mean, Cid’s definitely more impressive with his wrestling physique.

I need this game to be over fast.

I don’t try to give the guys a chance to get the ball back. Stare intently at the cups still in place. I sink the one that presents Reno with the same choice- and that’s when things shift. His eyes are no longer playful and flirty. Narrowed and dark instead. His eyebrows falling with concern. Hands on his hips and biting his lip. He shakes off the nerves and chooses pants over shirt. Elena shouts something positive and he smiles, but it’s one pinched with pain. He’s breathing heavily, and rubs the side of his stomach.

He doesn’t want to take his shirt off. 

This distracts me enough that I miss my next shot, giving him a chance to get one on me. 

All the girls shout when I have to drop my pants. And thank  _ god _ I’m wearing just plain black boxers, and the fear on Reno’s face takes away all the fun. Rude misses his shot on Cid, though, and he punches the table in frustration.

They have two more cups. We sink them in, we win and Reno and Rude take a bath in the stinking green pool water. And Reno would need to take off the last article of legal clothing. He bites his thumb nail, staring at the cups. The roar of the prominently female crowd rattle the house. And Rude leans over and whispers venom into his ear:  _ this backfired didn’t it, partner. _ Reno returns with an equally poisoned glare. And this confirmed that he had a plan to get me undressed. But overconfident that he could remain completely clothed. Our eyes meet again. Sad and soft. He grips his side with his other hand- his foot tapping against the cold linoleum. The shot I have to make is simple. Right in front of him- and if I can make a death cup, I can make that one. 

Cid makes his. 

But. 

I simply care about Reno’s comfort more than mine. And I overshoot.

He catches the ball in his hand and looks at me surprised. He needs to make this next one and he wins. He keeps his shirt on and I get wet, naked and pissed. 

Rude sinks his with a shout of relief. Reno takes one more second to look at me and I nod my head; giving him the okay to send me to my watery demise. Which he does, though he doesn’t seem to enjoy it. Rude punches his cousin’s arm, screaming “yeah” into his ear. Cid kicks the table so that all the pong cups fall everywhere- pissed that he lost. 

“I can’t believe you missed that shot, bro!” He booms shoving me. 

“You asked for this!” I counter, “I wasn’t trying to get wet and naked!”

“You coulda made that shot!” He yells louder that it over powers the rest of the jeers from the crowd. And I don’t need anyone else second guessing my actions. 

I grab his arm and swing him towards the sliding doors, “Come on, let’s get this shit over with!”

We sling biting words at each other on the short walk to the water. The frigid night air pricks my skin rising goosebumps along our exposed skin. Almost the whole party follows us outside to witness this execution. The water ripples a sick grass green. There’s plastic bags floating on the surface, and mysterious black streaks on the bottom. It  _ looks _ slimy. I narrow my eyes at Cid, who returns with an equally pissed stare, as if he saw right through my actions. And before he gets a chance to interrogate me further, I shove him into the pool- but at the last second, he grabs my arm and I topple in after him. 

The frigid water feels like gel. I immediately come up with Cid and we both scream fuck so loud, I’m convinced the neighbors heard. I jump out as fast as I fell in- I want a shower. Cid slaps his body as if covered by invisible bugs. Everyone else laughs, including Reno and Rude who managed to get their pants back on. I stomp back towards the group, clearly vexed. Aerith and Tifa have betrayed us and are holding one another up from laughing so hard. I walk past Reno, close enough so I can shoulder check him as if I’m pissed. 

“Cold there, Strife?” He mocks. 

I pause, and then as quiet as I possibly could, I lean close to his ear and whisper, “Wouldn’t you like to know,  _ pretty boy _ .” I can feel him tense up, but I shove passed the cluster of unaware bodies, back into the warmth of the house- and let him ponder that statement. 

* * *

Cid and I take refuge in the upstairs bathroom. Cissnei was kind enough to offer up towels so we can dry off before putting our clothes back on. I try using a blow dryer to dry off wet my boxers, still on my body, so it doesn’t look like I shit my pants for the rest of the night. Cid sits on the edge of the tub tying his shoes and mumbling about how he needs a cigarette after that fiasco. I give up on drying my shorts- it’s as good as it’s going to get. I am entirely too sober for this night. 

Cid looks up at me. “Yo Cloud, would you ever suck my dick?”

The question startles me. “What the fuck is wrong with you, bro?”

“Nothing, just askin’,” he shrugs.

“That’s gay- I mean literally gay,” I counter, knowing I probably wouldn’t, even though the general idea sounds fine to me. 

“It’s only gay if you don’t say ‘no homo’ before you do it,” he smirks.

I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. “Would you suck my dick if I sucked yours?”

“Fuck no!” He shouts. 

“Wow,” I pull my pants up and feign being offended, “You’d have me suck your dick and not even return the favor? Such a selfish lover, this is why we could never be together.”

“Real talk?” he rises from the tub and walks over to me, “If you were a chick, I’d probably date you.”

“Hmm,” I eye him up and down, “You’re not really my type. Sorry.”

He snorts and grabs me aggressively into a chokehold and messes up my hair. “Fuck you, I’m not your type. You would be  _ so lucky _ to have me.”

“Get off me man!” I shout and punch him in the crouch; he releases me and chokes back a fuck you. “You’re so fucking weird, bro.”

He throws his white shirt over his shoulder and shrugs. “I’m _ entertaining _ .” He opens the bathroom door to head back out to the party. 

“Aren’t you going to put your shirt on?”

He flashes me his signature half smile, “Nah, the ladies want a show and I’m going to give it to them. Maybe find one to get me off since you’re being a little bitch.”

I roll my eyes, “I think Elena almost fainted when you took off your shirt. She might be a good bet.”

“Oh word?” he considers the thought, forgetting what he said about her seeing Reno. “I better go find her.” He disappears. 

I throw my shirt on. I’m half way through buttoning it, not even attempting to tuck it back in- costume over- when suddenly the door to the bathroom slams shut and locks. I swing around and Reno leans against the door.

Blue eyes wide. 

Breathing as if he ran up the stairs. 

Or plague with nervous thoughts. 

His shirt is barely buttoned, untucked, his toned chest exposed. 

And we stare at each other for three beats of my heart. 

“You lost on purpose,” he accuses. 

I try to play it off, “No, I missed mad shots tonight.”

“You could have made that shot. I’ve seen you make that shot, before.” He presses. And I want to know why he’s so frantic in this bathroom with me. That maybe something else he’s hidden from me, that he doesn’t want bubbling to the surface. And he’s given it away. 

Or…

I slowly approach, never taking my eyes off him. “You didn’t think the game through, did you?”

“Not really,” he admits. 

I stand in front of him. Inches away that I can feel his chest rise and fall with every strangled breath. I realize we’re the same height. Our eyes burn against each other. His lips slightly parted. 

“Why did you even suggest it? Do you want to see my dick that bad?” I probed. Dared myself to take one more step to close the distance. 

“Yes.” He answers quickly, and I pause. His face never cracks. I’m waiting for a taunting laugh to follow. I’m even expecting him to bail out of this bathroom. But he doesn't move. His blue eyes that shimmer like two two diamonds remain glued to my eyes. Shifting. As if scanning my expression for any sign to back off. 

And I recognize how close our bodies actually are. Our legs meeting each other. And the only barrier is the fabric of our pants. I feel his heart beating against my half bare chest. It slams like it's trying to escape. And mine meets his rhythm. 

“How drunk are you?” He asks with complete, unwavering concern.

I blink. The room doesn’t quake or twist. I’m aware of the sounds of muffled conversations from downstairs. The white fluorescent light of the bathroom drowns out his skin, but amplifies the fire of his hair. 

“I’m sober enough to know I really want to kiss you.”

And that’s it. The last barrier comes crashing down. His lips are on mine with the force of a bomb, but I anticipate it. And welcome it. And want it worse than anything else in this world. 

And it’s everything. 

His hands on my face pulling me closer. Out mouths open. Hot breath and tongues. My arms find themselves around his waist. Then under his shirt, up his back…

And I am waiting for him to push me away. But he manages to get closer. Out waists rub together and I can’t tell if it’s me or him who moans when we come in contact over thin fabric. And I don’t even acknowledge the risk involved- that anyone can knock on this door and we’ll be found out- because he lets out this breathless gasp and says my name in a way I’ve never heard it said before. 

Like pleading desperation. And I’m immediately intoxicated and addicted to the sound. We don’t give our mouths a break for too long. And I wonder how we just know how bad the other wants this moment. 

My hands through his hair, as soft as I imagined. And he smells just like Old spice cologne. And I need to know how every part of him tastes, because the mint mixed Jack Daniels will not be enough. His hand moving down my chest-

We slow down.

Our bodies fight for control.

Our lips stop after one last entirely too long kiss that sends vibrations to my stomach that flutters back to my brain. 

Our mouths hovering over each other. 

Quivering. 

There’s something on the top of our tongues, that’s too soon to admit.

But it’s there. Like a brick on my chest. 

I take a heavy breath, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

Reno smiles back, “I’ve wanted to do that since I bumped into you.”

I glide my fingers along his jaw like I imagined when I was underneath the boardwalk; and marvel at the softness of his skin, the sharpness of his edges. He connects our lips again into a softer kiss that bursts with so much emotion; all I can see are colors behind my eyes. That’s the only way to describe this. I can  _ feel _ the hotness of reds, and the pringling coldness of blue, and the passion behind purple. I want to tell him all the promises I made in his name. And how I want to be the only one who gets to kiss him like this. 

And I don’t want to ever get back to the person I was before he came into my life. 

I pull away. He studies me for a moment. A playful grin tugs at his mouth, as if he knows what I’m about to present him.

“I really like you, Reno,” and I love the way his name tastes, “and I know it has a lot to do with your eyes. And your mess of hair. It’s how you walk through that school like you don’t give a flying fuck about anyone, but will stay with me all night so I don’t destroy myself. And it’s twenty percent your smile, and probably thirty percent your accent. It’s your shitty attempts at flirting. And when I kiss you, I feel colors, and I don’t want to let that go. But most of all, and I don’t care if this is selfish, it’s how I feel when you’re not even around: like I want to  _ stay  _ alive just so I can see you again.” 

His smile falters, swallowing hard as he takes in my words. “Damn, that’s a fucking line.” 

“I mean it,” I say with conviction, staring directly into his eyes. I know I can tell him I won’t hurt him in all the abusive ways he experienced with his ex-boyfriend; but those are just words. And sometimes there’s doubt with words. And I want him to know, as well as I do, that I want this. I don’t care about the risks. 

But before he gets a chance to respond, someone bangs on the bathroom door- and we both jump several spaces away from each other. A stranger's voice shouts, “Neighbors called the cops! Everyone out!” And I hear them charge away. 

“God dammit,” Reno snaps. “Fucking Cissnei.”

We exchange a longing look. Both of us breathing heavily from the sudden heart attack. And I know, sadly, that our time together is over, for now. And he approaches me and plants one more kiss on my lips filled with trembling want. His hands find themselves in my hair and he yanks me closer- the combination of pain and pleasure. I grip his hips tightly-

And he pulls away, gently pats my cheeks to bring me out of the stupor that his kiss caused. “I’ll call you tomorrow,  _ cherry soda boy _ .” And he runs out of the bathroom, leaving me standing there, under the fluorescent lights. Listening to the commotion of heavy footsteps as people scramble out of the house. I don’t hear the sirens yet, so I give myself one more second relive our time existing in a seemingly alternate universe. 

And I can’t wait for tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone play strip pong with their friends?  
> No?  
> Just me and my friends?  
> And Cid and Cloud's conversation is about 50% real.


	14. Spooks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boundaries aren't exactly romantic. But Cloud is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Nothing intense, but there is a reference to the Cid's straight razor in a context that could be troubling. It's more implied than straight out said. But just incase!

Chapter Fourteen: Spooks

I barely made it over the backyard fence with Cid when the sirens rolled up- and the cops son seemed more panicked than me, as if he doesn’t brag about the PBA card in his pocket. We snuck through a neighbors backyard, coming up a different street, where we linked up with Barret- who, apparently seeing the writing on the wall when a neighbor came knocking on the door to check on the house, managed to get most of our friends out before all hell broke loose. Cid and I were the only two missing. I told them I was in the bathroom, but they interrogated me on why it took me so long to leave as we walked towards the train station. Cid mentioned he ended up making out with some girl- Chloe, maybe?- in a random bedroom. 

Tifa’s red eyes ignited when he retold the story. 

She wants to go home. She’s tired. She’s over the night. 

These are the lines she usually shoots at me when I piss her off. 

Barret agrees, however; his parents are blowing up his phone as if they  _ sense _ he was up to no good. Vinny invites the rest of us to his place, and since Cid told his mom that’s where he would be crashing, we go while Barret walks Tifa home. Though suspicious, I noticed once we all entered the pale boys modest home on New Dorp Lane, that Biggs had separated from the group. Cid notes his absence to, eyes narrowed into two blue slits. But Wedge and Jessie brush off the unwarranted concern, and we get ready to play video games. Vincent’s aunt already has english muffin pizzas in the oven, as if expecting our arrival at nearly midnight. But I’m told she doesn’t sleep, sitting up all night chain smoking and watching reruns of  _ Law and Order _ until the sun rises. 

I try calling Sephiroth to tell him to swing by, but he doesn’t answer. And I’m not exactly iching to see him, even though we hardly interacted at the party at all, and figured I’d see him later. We usually have a tradition on Halloween. Everyone comes over my place, we order pizza, marathon horror movies, and go ghost hunting at the abandoned mental hospital by Seaview. 

But Halloween falls on a Sunday this year.

And one by one, throughout the day, the friends fall off the tradition. Cid and Barret have essays for their AP U.S History class that neither one of them started- and now both are in trouble with the parents. So they’re out. Vinny “doesn’t feel like it.” And that’s really all he has to say and I don’t argue. 

I come to find out Sephiroth managed to get his ass grounded. Which is quite the accomplishment, because usually his mom and dad never attempt to implement any kind of consequences for his actions. However, the idiot took entirely too many pills at the party, passed out in a bathroom and the cops found him. 

All his so called friends that he elects to socialize with at school over me, left him there. 

Tifa wants to come over still. I scrunch my face in disappointment when she asks if I’m still having anyone over. Pushing that maybe Biggs, Wedge, Jessie and Yuffie would still be down to come. 

And that would have been fine: if Reno hadn’t told me he would call me before he ran out the bathroom. And if I wasn’t anticipating that call. And I wasn’t planning on using this as an opportunity to get him over my house. Alone. Without the pressure of dodging people around us. 

And I hear the pain in her voice when I lie to her and tell her I’m not feeling well and we’ll rain check for next weekend- who says Halloween needs to be over November 1st? And I feel even worse when she tells me she hooked up with Biggs after everyone left, and she doesn’t know how she feels now; and he’s calling her already asking to hangout and she didn’t know if she was ready to see him alone again. 

I give her half assed advice. Tell her to hang out with everyone as a group today and see how she feels tomorrow. She asks me again to either come over and or have them at my place. I’m a jackass. I bail on her. She hangs up on me. 

Twenty minutes later, Cid texts me:  **Tifa hooked up w/ Biggs.**

And I’m not exactly sure what to make of that text. And I wonder why these two have decided I, of all people, should be in the middle of this situation. I know I’m Tifa’s best friend. I know I’m Cid’s best friend. But I also see the way Tifa looks at me when we are together, alone. Like she’s waiting for me to make a move on her for once instead of ruining her female friendships. And I feel the way Cid eyes burn me from across rooms when she and I are talking at get togethers. But I also see how they bluntly flirt in front of me when they think I’m not looking. And I can’t tell if Tifa’s interest in him is pure or a way to get me jealous. But I know he cares about her enough that he would probably ruin our friendship if she gave him the green light.

So, selfishly, I don’t want them together. I send back a passive aggressive:  **so?**

Which he never elaborates on. 

All my friends are now doing their own thing and I’m pretending I’m not looking at my phone waiting for someone to call. Because I’m not doing that.

Because that’s  _ not _ the kind of guy I am. I’m not the sit there, leg bouncing, watching the slowest clock in history tick aways while each second my stomach curls, type of guy. I wasn’t like that with Aerith, who often complained that I never woke her up with good morning texts, or waited up for her phone calls. And I guess in retrospect, it’s because I’m gay and didn’t want to see her while we were together- because she wanted to make out or have sex. Or do anything couples were supposed to do, and the entire thought made me sick because of how wrong it was of me to use her as a guard for my sexuality. 

Even though I really want him to call. To come over. Maybe kiss those lips again. 

I guess I could call him.

But he told me he’d call  _ me _ . So

Balls in his court. 

And he said his ex was clingy, so I’m not trying to remind him of his ex. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have changed my plans for him. I think about calling Tifa back. But now she’s pissed off, and will raise more questions than I want to answer. And I’m not really trying to see Jessie again, who spent the rest of the night at Vincent’s flirting with me and trying to get me to kiss her- and growing annoyed when I wouldn’t. It doesn’t feel right. It never did. And I didn’t want to taint the elated feeling in my chest with something dark. 

No. I’m not this guy. I can be alone with my thoughts for  _ one night _ .

My parents are getting ready to go to a Halloween fair near Historic Richmond Town. They cordially invited me, but I gave them the same excuse I gave Tifa. My dad puts the finishing touches on his Gomez Addams costume upstairs. My mom stands in the living room in a long black wig, elegant simple black dress, and made up to look like Morticia. And she looks gorgeous, except for the vacant look in her ice blue eyes as she stares at a family picture of us. 

“Ma,” I bark at her, waving my hand in her face, “You okay?”

She flinches, shooting me her empty glare and sighs. “I’m fine, sweetheart. You know how I get when I have to see your father's friends.”

I frown. “They’re your friends too, right?”

She shrugs and her eyes wilt to the floor. Arms over her chest. “Dad told me you aren’t feeling well?”

“Yeah,” I fib, “my stomach hurts.”

“You’re not gearing up to try to get out of school tomorrow?” There’s a hint of amusement in her tone. She brings her eyes back to me and a small grin pushes through her stoned face. 

“I don’t know,” I whine, “Might need to stay home tomorrow.”

We chuckle. And it’s the most interaction we’ve had in a long time. And even though I know she’s high one something, probably her xanax, she feels human for the moment. My dad jogs downstairs in full costume. He spins around for us and I admire his effort. He covered the dirty blonde hair with some fake black dye, and penciled a small mustache over his lip. He’s rocking the black and white striped suit jacket and pants, with a small purple bow tie. He pulls out a cigar and places it in his mouth, much to my mother’s complaint about cigar breath- as if she doesn’t smell like her brand of cigarettes. 

Then he pulls out a rose and hands it to her. And she smiles like she’s a high school girl. And they aren’t fighting for once. But I know that might change when the night wears on and she overdoes it with the liquid courage- as she sinks under the misguided notion that people only think she’s interesting when she’s intoxicated. Then my dad will burn with embarrassment. And they’ll stumble into the house full screaming match, as if I don’t exist. 

But in this brief snapshot of a moment, when he kisses her hand as he calls her “cara mia” and she replies with a butchered “mon cher”, they look like the picture perfect couple in the photos that litter the house. 

Dad turns to me and puts his hand on my forehead which jolts me from my thoughts. “Hm, you don’t feel warm. Are you sure you’re not up to come out with us? You can be Pugsly.”

“Oh he’s too tall now to be Pugsly,” my mother retorts, “maybe Lurch. He has the face.” 

I wonder when she got them jokes. “It’s my stomach,” I push, “I just want to lay down and watch movies.”

My dad looks at my mother, unsure, before looking back to me. “I’m not sure about you being alone in the house.” I suddenly remember, I still have Cid’s straight razor. “Are any of your friends coming by? Sephiroth? Cid? Barret?”

“Yeah, Cid’s gonna come by after he finishes some homework,” I try to sound convincing. Looking him right in his eyes. And I don’t remember when I exactly got good at lying to them- maybe when I started smoking cigarettes- or maybe they accept their role as willfully ignorant parents as it’s easier than really caring. 

“Okay,” he scans my face one more time, “I left some money on the table so you can order pizza. Don’t have a party while we’re gone.”

I offer them a thumbs up. 

“Make good choices, sweetheart,” my mom shouts as they close the door. 

“I always do,” I murmur to the pictures on the wall. 

The house feels like a coffin. Silent. Dark. Perfect for Halloween, but not when I know it’s only a matter of time before my sick brain turns against me in spectacular fashion. I grab my guitar, my pack of cigarettes, phone, and a compiled book of songs I’m teaching myself. I head to the backyard, try to avoid the house for as long as possible, and take a seat on one of the lounge chairs my mom uses to sunbathe in the summer. I flip through the book. I was teaching myself  _ Like a Stone _ by Audioslave, and while that’s my vocal range, and I’m close to getting the solo down on the acoustic, I’m not in the mood for melancholy. 

I’m on an up swing. Might as well hold on to it. I pick  _ Dragula _ by Rob Zombie instead. 

The sun starts to set in the distance, creating a painting of pinks and purples in the waning sky with freckles of dark clouds hovering overhead. Reno’s house stares at me from beyond the black fence my dad took nearly an entire month to build. I can see the lights on in the upstairs rooms, and wonder which one is his. If he’s sitting in bed right now replaying what happened last night in his head. If he felt the same rush of colors I feel when I think of the way our lips came together. Like the painted sky. 

I start warming up with cords. The vibrations rock my body as I move through the nylon strings. The pleasure of pain when I press down on my calloused fingers. Once I am comfortable in my own dome, I start playing using a slower, more melodic rhythm than the rough fast guitars of the original song. In the quiet evening night, I sing softly along with the music.

_ Dead I am the one, exterminating son _

_ Slipping through the trees, strangling the breeze _

_ Dead I am the sky, watching angels cry _

_ While they slowly turn, conquering the worm _ __

_ Dig through the ditches _

_ And burn through the witches _

_ I slam in the back of my _

_ Dragula... _

I get hit on the head by something and nearly chuck my guitar off me. 

At first, I think it’s a bat coming to show displeasure with my singing. But I look down and see an unopened pack of Marlboro Menthols on the floor next to me. I squint. My pack currently lays on the small end table next to me. Then I hear a loud, aggressive “pst” coming from beyond the fence. A loud whisper follows: “Answer your fucking phone, jerkoff.”

I dig in my pocket and my phone shines “Hot Tamale” with its blue hypnotic light. 

I flip it open, “Yeah…?”

“You  _ suck _ at answering your phone,” he declares with a snarky tone. 

“Sorry I wasn’t sitting here all day waiting for you to call,” I argue back, even though that is a complete lie. 

“Bullshit, you were 100 percent sitting there waiting for me to call.”

“Someone’s cocky,” I retort and he laughs.

“So are you going to invite me over?” Reno asks and my heart jumps. 

I pause to make him sweat a little. “Hm. I guess. If you want.”

“Ass. You know I want to.” 

He hangs up. I expect him to walk around the block and come through the side entrance- like a normal person. However, I hear sprinting footsteps charge for the fence, and Reno grabs the top of my dad’s handy work and throws himself over. Landing hard on his feet, that he shouts  _ shit  _ and hops over to me, probably twisting his ankle.

“I need to stop doin’ stupid shit if I want to play baseball,” he seethes through clenched teeth and takes a seat on the same chair as me. He’s wearing his Yankee hat again, blue jeans, and a gray thermal long sleeve that hugs his body tightly; and he looks like a Brooklynite heading to the bar on a Saturday. And I guess that’s my type, because the first guy I ever kissed dressed the same. 

“How long were you sitting out there?” I question. 

“Long enough,” he grinned, his eyes dancing to my guitar, then to my eyes.

“So you were just sitting there, like a creep, listening to me play?” I accuse. My cheeks burn. I never let anyone listen to me sing so I’m not sure how I sound; I’m sure the smoking doesn’t help my vocal cords. 

“No,” he corrects, opening his pack of cigarettes and pulling out a perfectly rolled joint. “I was sitting there rolling  _ this for you _ and listening to you sing.” He lights up, taking an inhale and watching the smoke drift from the burning ember. He hands it to me, “You sound good. What song is that?”

My tongue feels swollen, like I can’t speak. I take a hit to loosen up, sputtering out several coughs to his amused laugh. This is some strong shit. Must be Rufus’. “ _ Dragula _ by Rob Zombie. His CDs are in the case I gave you.” I pass it back. 

“I’ll check it out next time.” He takes the small rolled up pot, purposely touching our fingers when he takes it from my hand. “Sick shirt, by the way.”

I look down. I’m wearing a black shirt with the VHS cover of the original  _ Halloween _ over a gray long sleeve and black sweatpants. I planned on changing if he called. But he didn’t really give me a chance; and I’m not sure if he is being sarcastic either. I look like a dumpster fire compared to him. 

“Wow, two compliments in the first five minutes?” I mock, “Must be my lucky day.”

He snorts, “I can easily go back to making fun of you, if that’s more your speed.”

“Nah, keep telling me nice things about me.”

He smirks as he passes the joint back to me, “You’re a really good kisser. I guess talkin’ shit ain’t the only thing you can do with that mouth.”

“You should see what else my mouth can do.” I wrap my lips around the small stick, taking a long inhale that wrecks my throat, but Reno never takes his eyes off the joint between my lips.

Then he starts laughing. And I blow the smoke in his face for being rude. “Yeah? Says the kid who couldn’t even tell me he was gay a month ago?”

I flip him off when snatches the pot from my hand. “There’s the asshole I like for some reason.”

“You gave me a lot of reasons last night,” he falters and he drops his eyes to the floor. He clips the joint for now, placing back in his pack and takes out a cigarette. He doesn’t light it immediately. Instead flipping it through his finger, biting his bottom lip and bouncing his leg. 

“That’s really how I feel,” I assure him.

He nods and goes through the motions of lighting up his tobacco stick. Taking a few moments to roll my response through his head. I gently strum the guitar, mindlessly, waiting for him to say what’s on his mind- because I know there’s something on the tip of his tongue he wants to bring up. I see it in the way his leg shakes. The way he nods his head as he thinks. How slow and purposeful he takes drags from the cigarette. 

Then he lets out a sigh, “There’s something you should know then before this goes any further. I haven’t been completely open with you- mostly because...I wasn’t sure if this would happen.” I pluck an E-string that rips through the air. He moves closer and brings his eyes to mine. I silently urge him to continue with the roar of a D-string. “My parents...can not know I’m still gay. They can’t even suspect for a minute. So not a single soul should know I am into guys. Word travels fast in this shit school, and if a rumor starts, it will eventually get back to my parents and it’ll be extremely difficult for me to convince them,” he takes a sharp painful breath that sounds like a quivering guitar in drop D tuning, “that I’m straight.

“Rude is the only one who knows, and that’s only because he’s family. But he’s got my back. He’s like a brother and he isn’t gonna tell anyone.” 

“You’re parents religious?” I inquire. 

His eyes twitch and narrow. “They’re religious when it’s convenient.”

I nod, “Okay.” I’m not sure what he’s getting at, but there’s tension in his tone, a forlong expression in his eyes; dark blue orbs that look like the light of an ambulance. 

“If you really want to do this, there has to be…” he rubs the back of his neck, “rules? No that doesn’t sound fucking romantic at all...”

“Boundaries?” I offer. And he nods unenthusiastically. “I think boundaries are fine.”

He relaxes his shoulders. “You can bail, Cloud. If you aren’t comfortable with these...boundaries.” I strum an E minor chord and lean closer to him to urge him to continue with rules, or boundaries. “Right. So. The first one...no PDA. No hand holding in public, definitely no kissing. We should probably watch the way we look at each other.”

D chord next. “No argument there.” I am not really trying to give myself away to the rest of the school. Or my friends. I hit the C chord. 

“Second. We gotta be careful about texting. I might be paranoid, but I think my parents look through my phone. We haven’t said anything suspicious but...just to be safe. It’s easier to explain away a phone number popping up than a text message calling me babe or something corny like that.” His voice grows venomous. 

“Aight,  _ honey _ ,” I grin for a moment, his frown curves to a smile-forgetting himself for a minute- and I repeat the sequence. 

“And third,” he pursed his lips and drags his eyes to my fingers. “This is a big ask, so if you can’t...don’t sweat it.” I repeat the sequence quicker. “If you want to be friends in public, and boyfriends in private, then...you can’t tell anyone you’re gay. And no one can find out. Because the moment they know about you, they’ll know about me.”

I pause my playing and tilt my head. “I wasn’t exactly planning on coming out to anyone else anytime soon,” I admit with a pang of uncertainty that he immediately picks up on; and his laugh tastes like gasoline about to ignite.

“You say that now,” his voice sparks, “but it’s not going to be easy being kept a secret.” He clenches his jaw. Face of stone. Curled with bitterness. “And it’ll have to stay like that until I either turn eighteen or go away to college. So minimum, over a year. That’s a lot of pressure to put on someone, Cloud.”

I consider his words through strumming of G, B7 and E minor chords; before repeating the original sequence. I don’t want to come out to anyone. Reno the exception, for obvious reasons. Shit blew up in my face last time I attempted revealing that side of myself to someone I trusted. Whispers followed. A best friend second guessed me, bearing down on me with furious hazel eyes, and weaponized that word that makes my brain twist. He wasn’t even the worst of it. I eventually convinced him it was a rumor, and once I started making out with Tifa at sleepovers, again, he kindly forgot about the fire that spread through the camp that year. So, these boundaries...don’t seem difficult to not cross. 

But out of respect for him- and I can tell this burden weighs heavily on his shoulders- I dwell on the rules that would hover over our relationship. 

Part of it does feel wrong. It burns like the pain in my neck from looking over my shoulder.

Then again-

Reno’s watching my fingers move through the guitar. He leans a little closer, as if trying to make out the song that rattles from the guitar.

“Sound familiar?” I ask.

He shrugs, “Kinda. What is it?”

“ _ Nothing Else Matter _ by Metallica,” I respond with an A chord that trembles through the silence of the setting sun. “It was one of the first songs I heard in your car..”

His face relaxes; the stone look cracks as a smile spreads. “You being sentimental over there, pretty boy?”

I shrug, “I’m just playing a song I really like for a guy I really like.” I sense he has a snarky comment; the way the blues in his eyes shimmer against the growing night gives him away. I pause my playing, using my strumming hand to reach over and glide my fingers across his hand, which silences him for the moment. He responds by enclosing our fingers together. “I accept the terms of our relationship as you have laid them out.”

He shakes his head, “Man, you shit at negotiating then.”

“Nothing to negotiate,” I continue, “Friends on the outside, still? So we get to see each other whenever we want.  _ Guys are allowed to be friends _ .” I repeat the words he offered me in the car a week ago. He nods, but his eyes still look pained. “And boyfriends on the inside. I’m fine with that, I promise.”

Reno eyes our tangled fingers, then looks at my house. “Whose room is right there?”

I turn. The downstairs door leads into the darkened kitchen. Upstairs there are two rooms that he could be talking about. “Guest bedroom and my dad’s office. No one’s home anyway,” I assure him. Then look over at his house; one room has the shades drawn and completely black, the other room I can see the glow of a table lamp. “And those rooms?”

“Mine’s on your right, my brother’s on your left.” 

“Brother?” I asked. He never mentioned having a brother. 

“Yeah, I have a little brother. Phoenix, he’s five.”

I snort and he shoots me an annoyed glare. “Sorry, but Reno and Phoenix?”

“Alright,  _ Cloud _ .” He untangles our fingers; a chill descends over us but he doesn’t maintain the space for long. 

He leans in closer, practically against my guitar which acts like an unwanted barrier between us. My heart races as our lips meet. Softer than our first kiss that was licked with quaking desperation. This time we move slower; sampling each other. He tastes like the poison infects his body with, and there’s something about the smell of cigarettes on his breath that makes me feel high. 

He pulls back. “What color did that feel like?”

I grin against his lips. “Blue. Like your eyes. Like electricity.”

“Hm,” he purrs, “I fuck with that.”

“So,” I trail off breathlessly as he gives me one more peck before moving away. “Big plans for Halloween?”

He gestures at the two of us. “This pretty much was how far I planned. Why? You got somethin’ in mind?”

I tap the wood of the guitar. “Well usually my friends and I get together and watch horror movies, eat pizza, and then go to abandoned mental hospitals to find ghosts. But they aren’t coming around.”

“Did you break plans with your friends for me?” His tone is accusatory but he looks playful. 

“No,” I half lie, “Everyone is either in trouble or hanging out with people I don’t feel like seeing.” 

“I never really watch horror movies,” he admits, “my parents hate Halloween and everything associated with it. They wouldn’t even let Phoenix go trick or treating. I snuck him out to walk around the neighbor. He was a lawyer..”

I chuckle. “How did you pull that one off?”

“I kept him in his Church outfit and told him to yell objection at every house we went to,” he shakes his head, laughing. “He was very  _ passionate _ .”

“Wow, you’re a good brother,” I acknowledge.

“I have my moments,” his smile looks distant, as he brought his eyes to his lap, “I had to take the candy, though, My mom would have lost her shit. I told him I’ll give him a piece a night if he doesn’t piss me off; and if he doesn’t tell mom and dad what we did. They barely let me hang out with the kid.”

A soft ‘why’ dances against my tongue, but I swallow that inquiry when I see the way his face seems broken with disappointment. There are frayed threads that exist within his family, that he hasn’t explicitly revealed, but hinted through subtle expression. I try to change the subject. 

“When do you have to be back home?” I ask. 

“Whenever. They don’t even know I left the house. They really don’t give a flying fuck what I do. They left me behind today when they went to church- I mean I ain’t complaining about that entirely. But yeah,” he pauses and tries to force a smile, “I don’t have a curfew or nothin’. Just need to be home before my old man wakes up.”

“And you never watched horror movies?” I press and he lets out an exasperated sigh for having to repeat himself. “Okay, okay. Do you want to come in and I’ll educate you on the fine cinematic achievements of the horror genre?”

He snickers, “how do ya’ll say it up here? ‘You mad corny, bra?’” 

I roll my eyes at his attempt to mock my accent and slang. I rise from the lounge chair, grabbing my now two packs of cigarettes-lamenting that my smoking habit is starting to get out of hand now. “Alright, cowboy, chill. You coming or not?”

He jumps up, “Don’t get sassy. I’m comin.”

I bring him through the side entrance that leads into the basement. The house rests deathly quiet, and it’s as if every single movement we make echoes through the silent brick structure, rattling the walls. I rest my guitar on the stand next to the couch, noticing the wet palm prints I leave behind. Acknowledging chest feels buried in my stomach. Nerves electrify my skin. The last time we were both in this basement, he leaned against the bannister, with his arms over his chest, apologizing for words he said earlier that day. And how long ago does that suddenly feel? A different life even. Now he’s strolling through the basement, admiring the amalgamation of abandoned decor of years passed. Old pictures that my mother bought on a whim which had no business being together. The floral musky white couch, a relic from the 90s, with beer stains from late nights. Bookshelves which house old textbooks from my parents' time in college. Psychology, finance, management. Some stolen music books. A messy blue desk with a computer that no one uses- supposed to be my mother’s but she never drags her body down the stairs far enough to utilize it. 

The entire basement takes up the length of the house, but this small section is the only part occupied. The rest wraps away a wall in a u-shape, and has some discarded exercise equipment that have seen better days. A mock bar for when we used to have parties. Now collecting dust and cobwebs. 

“This would be a sweet ass apartment,” he muses, removing his hat and running fingers through his fiery red-head so it stands in different directions. Still somehow looking good while being a mess. 

“Yeah, my dad says when I turn 18, I can move down here. He thinks I’m too young for the responsibility and I’ll abuse the privilege.” I kneel in front of the entertainment center that’s home to my extensive horror movie collection. And I hear Reno chuckle, as if taking note of the actual privileges I have abused. I start pulling out the classics: some old school silent movies, the slashers, zombie genre, psychological horror, some weird independent stuff that the mainstream wouldn’t know about. “Alright, what are you in the mood for?”

He furrows his brows, “I don’t know, something’ scary?”

“Well,” I start picking up VHSs and DVDs, “Do you want a mini-lesson on the origins of horror? We can start with the  _ Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.  _ It’s definitely not the first horror movie, but it’s the earliest I got. It’s a silent film, but it has the horror atmosphere and definitely paved the way for the genre.  _ Or _ we can go with one of the classic Universal monsters: I have  _ Frankenstien, Bride of Frankenstien, Dracula, Creature from the Black Lagoon _ \- which I think it’s interesting because most of these monsters are just misunderstood by man and villainize due to humans inability to understand anything that appears different. Except maybe Dracula.  _ Or _ ,” I move some VHSs out of the way, and grab one of my favorites, “We can go through the rabbit hole that is the zombie genre with George A. Romero’s  _ classic  _ masterpiece  _ Night of the Living Dead _ -”

“Cloud!” he finally shouts, interrupting my rambling. He’s on the couch, leaning forward with his arms on his legs. A shocked smile on his face which contradicts the edge to his tone. He softens when he sees me place the VHS back down, “I think it’s  _ really _ cool how into horror movies you are. And I really want to watch all of them with you and you can tell me all about them. But, for the sake of time, how about we just start with the movie on your shirt.”

I click my tongue, “ _ Halloweeen? _ Typical.” 

He rolls his eyes, “I think it’s logical to watch a movie called Halloween  _ on  _ Halloween.” 

“Fine, this is the movie that jump started the Golden Age of the slasher genre anyway, so appropriate that we watch this first.”

“God, you’re a fucking nerd.”

“You have no idea, you should see my video game collection.”

I put the movie into the VHS port and kill the lights to set the mood. Which Reno remarks on sarcastically as I take a seat next to him. The nerves wrap around me again as I lean back. Reno doesn’t move immediately, but I can see his face through the glow of the television. Dragging his teeth over his trembling bottom lip. We’re alone, in the heavy darkness of the basement, without threats of interruption. No one banging on the door. No one searching for me through a crowded house. Just me, Reno and Michael Myers. But the creeping insecurities begin to poke at my brain. I feel my leg bouncing as the opening title screen appears. I try to remain focused on the movie to calm my rapidly beating heart- that feels a little too close to an actual panic attack. 

I see Reno look at my trembling leg. I see the smirk. And he places his hand on the offending limb and renders it silent. He leans back against me, dragging his grip down my leg and I let out something that could be considered a sharp inhale. I adjust so he’s more comfortable and wrap my arm around his back to his waist. I get daring. Lift up a bit of his shirt to feel the soft heat of his bare skin. He moves closer which I take as approval. I keep my eyes on the T.V screen; the only sounds from the movie’s tense opening and Reno’s rough breaths. I can almost feel his heart flutter from inside his chest. And it matches mine. 

He fits perfectly in this scene.

Like a routine we’ve mastered through practice. 

And then he whispers, almost solemnly, “I never did this before.”

My heart calms and warmth cascades through my body. “What? Watched a movie?”

And there’s more of an implication with that question. Never watched a horror movie

With a boy.

Wrap in his arms. 

“Yeah...exactly,” he says through raspy breaths.

We make it to the scene where a young Michael Myers stabs his naked sister to death.

Before we give up on watching the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tosses breadcrumbs*  
> Oh hallo. I'm just a little author leaving breadcrumbs for my readers.   
> The next two chapters will also have breadcrumbs. Maybe you are an OG fan and you're understand them.  
> Maybe you're a new fan and now you have ~questions~
> 
> I don't know, but I love you all who keep commenting and leaving kudos. It really makes my heart swell.   
> Let me know what you all (or yous as we from Staten Island say) think. If I miss any potential triggers let me know so I can add them to the main tag list and be more mindful.  
> The next two chapters are a little more lighthearted. I want to spend some time developing some of those important side characters. Even though I am, like, SO over Sephiroth haha.


	15. Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Vignettes that offer a snap shot of Cloud and Reno's growing relationship.  
> And some of the outside issues they begin to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:   
> Suicide attempt implied.   
> (It's not outwardly said, but you can gather what he means)

Chapter Fifteen: Walls

Seph lost his car privileges. He also can’t go out after school and any weekend plans he may have thought about making fly out the window.

His coach isn’t happy with him either. Even though the cops didn’t book him, just dropped him home to his enraged parents, word traveled through the school faster than a wildfire. By Monday afternoon, everyone knew what happened; and after the All Saint’s Day Mass, his coach yanked him to the side and lectured him. Sephiroth smoldered with anger when he met me in the parking lot after his lashing.

Which meant I got the brunt of his rage. I kept my mouth shut while he unleashed minute verbal aggressions towards me while we waited for his mother to pick us up; ignoring him, my eyes glued to the phone where texts came in from better boys. 

**We hav a physics project due.**

**Shud maybe com ova 2 work on it**

The project isn’t due until the end of the month, but any excuse to see each other. And I mindlessly text him back that I’ll let him know when I’m home. 

“Who the fuck are you texting?” Sephiroth snaps and tries to look at my phone but I slam it shut and shove it in my pocket. 

“I have to work on a physics project. I’m coordinating with my partner,” I shot back, staring right at him as if challenging him to continue. Luckily he mother pulls up and the conversation pauses for the time being. 

Jenova Stern, born and raised in the Soviet Union, unleashes an epic attack upon her only son as soon as the door closes. Apparently, still not finished with their discussion from Sunday, she screams at him in her native Russian for the entire ride home. Sephiroth occasionally shouting back, in a broken tongue, which only earns him a rough slap on the head from the woman. He roars at her, something I half understand from looking up curse words in his language. She gasps and fires back with something that sounds like a beautiful string of violent words before ending with a thickly accented, “Why can’t you be more like little Cloud?”

I cringe. Sephiorth slowly turns around to glare at me from the front seat. 

I drop my eyes to my phone. 

**If i die, Seph murdered me.**

Reno texts back immediately,  **id like 2 see him try.**

They finally drop me off, his mother barely coming to a complete stop before I spring from the car. I try not to feel guilty about Sephiroth’s predicament. Part of me blames myself for some sick reason. I had been so focused on Reno at the party, I didn’t think to check on him. But then I remember, as recently as even Kryie’s party, Sephiroth was the only one to not look for me after getting me absolutely wrecked. And if it hadn’t been for the red-head, I would have probably-

No. No use dwelling on past mistakes. 

I enter the house. Mom on the couch. As expected, living her own tragedy. I don’t allow myself time to analyze the broken form of the woman, with her smeared Morticia makeup and dried tears, and immediately gather her in my arms to return her to the bed. She doesn’t stir; only her restless breathing providing any signs of life. I drop her on the bed, harder than I intended to, or maybe not. She lets out a groan but never opens her eyes. And I am wrapped with a new feeling. Like a constrictor tightening around me, crushing my bones. 

“Mom.” I shout.

Nothing. 

“Mom! Wake up!” Louder this time. Like a cannon. 

I think about how beautiful she looked last night. With her makeup hiding all the evidence of the internal war. The smile as she looked at my father; like she  _ cherished _ him and his existence. Even the concerned laced voice when she questioned my fake illness. I mourned for the previous day, when my mother managed to look human and not the zombie that moans in this grave.

“Mom,” softer, like the pang of a piano key, “I like boys.”

For the moment I thought if I sacrificed a bit of myself, she would come back to me. Like she did when I laid in a puddle of my own regrets; and she gathered me in her arms, the way I do to her on a daily basis, and begged me not to leave.. 

_ It can’t be that bad. _

But I’m met with nothing.

Like the vacuum of space. 

I exit, shutting the door behind me, and pray to a God I don’t know exists that she doesn’t throw up in her sleep. 

I text Reno to meet me at the side entrance as I change out of my uniform. I haven’t cared about how I look for ages, but I’m on a new kick where I need to make sure I look acceptable, at least. Which honestly makes me feel incredibly  _ lame _ . I stare at myself in the mirror as I try re-styling my hair mumbling soft  _ what the fuck is wrong with you’s  _ to the reflection. I mentally slap myself in the head when I spray this Armani cologne Aerith got me for Christmas last year that I literally never wore because  _ fuck smelling nice?  _

My phone pings:  **hurry up, braaaaaaa**

I roll my eyes at his impatience. Though I don’t blame him. The school day was cut short do to the holiday celebration which consisted of a two hour assembly, a one hour segment where we were broken up by gender to discuss abstinence, followed by a one hour mass as the cherry topping. This meant no secret rendezvous bathroom trips to add tar to our lungs, no quiet conversations during physics using code words to discuss potential plans, or shared side-eyes during Sister Lucia’s vicious homilies in Religion. 

I wouldn’t go as far as to say we  _ missed _ each other. 

Even when I opened the door, he pushed his way inside with his lips on mine. And I slammed the door with one hand and pulled him closer with the other. 

Like we didn’t spend the entire length of Michael Myers’ killing spree yesterday in almost the same position, on the couch.

Reno pulls away and squints his eyes at me. “Did you put on new cologne for me?”

“What?” I stammer, “No.”

“You smell different,” he smirks, “You usually smell like liquor, cigarettes, and regret.”

“ _ What _ did I tell you about smelling people?” I gently push him away. 

“Aw, and you fixed your hair,” he runs his fingers through the blonde strands and rubs my head, destroying my effort, “Look at you. I  _ must  _ be special.” His voice drips with mocking sarcasm, and my frown and narrowed eyes do nothing but elicit a laugh from him. 

“Nope, I do this for all the guys I bring home,” I remark with no emotion. 

“Right, I definitely see you getting all dolled up for Cid Highwind,” he scans my outfit; it’s nothing extremely special, black jeans and maybe a bit of a tighter band shirt than I usually adorn that shows off the effort I’ve been putting into gym class. 

“Watch it,” I caution, “he might be your biggest competition.”

“Ha!” He barks but his eye twitches ever so slightly, “There’s no competition.” 

“If you say so.” I drag the last word out and back up with a sick grin on my face. He doesn’t find me amusing, and narrows his eyes at me like a warning. The look suggests danger and I laugh.

“Great, now I’m going to have to murder Highwind,” he sighs. Joking, I think. “Making shit complicated already, pretty boy.” He takes a hold of my wrist to pull me back. 

I’m not wearing any long sleeves this time. 

He doesn’t mention it, but his eyes snap to my arm, before returning to my murky blues.

And I recognize a certain comfort between the two of us. Like we’ve known each other in another life. 

Last night drips in my mind as we stand in the basement, engulfed in each other's gaze. 

How difficult it became to keep our hands off each other. My gentle reminders that I am also  _ not this guy _ . But I couldn’t help the way my fingers felt like magnets attracted to the lines of his face. And he didn’t seem so controlled himself, dragging my shirt up so he could run his nails across my skin. Occasionally turning his head to squint his eyes at the murderous deaths on the screen, giving me a chance to kiss the edges of his jaw while he laid under me.

_ Some top _ . I had mocked.

_ Stabbing someone with that small of a knife wouldn’t leave him hangin’ on the wall like that _ . He had countered.  _ His body weight would have definitely dragged the knife off the wall. _

_ Do you want to watch the movie or do you want to makeout? _

_ I can’t do both? _

We had ordered pizza. He told me he used to live in Cooksville, Tennessee- directly in the middle of Knoxville and Nashville.  _ I don’t miss it.  _ He lamented. I asked about friends, and he unleashed a sardonic smirk. Shook his head.  _ They weren’t friends _ . His dad’s a lawyer with political aspirations, why he stays close to the Shinras, and they had to leave their home in the buckle of the bible belt because of a brewing scandal. And when he told me this, his voice dropped and trailed off. He stared at the T.V screen, paused on the title screen of the next movie-  _ The Exorcist _ \- his jaw clenched. And while his eyes shook, as if transcribing writing on walls, his face was stitched with anger.

_ We don’t have to watch any more movies- _

_ I’m not scared.  _ His voice tense. 

I didn't ask if he was scared. He leaned against me silently, much like he did during the first movie, except he had his arms wrapped around himself like a shield, and hat pulled down so his eyes were hidden. 

I could feel him flinch silently during scenes with extreme Religious symbolism, and when certain music played he gripped his sides. Then, he laughed when poor possessed Reagan crab walked down the stairs with blood in her mouth, and snorted during that infamous cross masturbation scene. But sharply inhaled and froze like a statue when the priest cried  _ the power of Christ compels you _ . And smirked when the elder of the two priests died. 

He left after my parents came home. The single set of heavy footsteps echoed through the house and we watched the ceiling until the sound disappeared upstairs. My dad carried my mom’s destroyed body. And when I complained about my mother’s addiction, I noticed the way he side eyed me, like maybe he understands my father more. I escorted him outside, where he insisted on hoping the fence again. But before he did, he looked me in the eye:  _ I have scars too.  _

And I wondered if they were both physical and emotional. 

Back in the present. 

“This may disappoint you,” he starts- my hands running up and down the sides of his torso over his shirt, “But I actually did come here to do homework.”

My turn to squint, “Seriously? That physics shit isn’t due till the day before Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, but we have a Math test Friday and I can’t help you cheat in that class,” he argues. As if he even lets me cheat during Physics. I grumble when he pulls back. “I can’t date someone who sucks at Math.”

“Too bad, because you’re dating someone who sucks at Math,” I countered. But he doesn’t accept that answer.

I guide him to the upstairs; if we are going to do this, we might as well do it in the kitchen where the mid-afternoon sun still hangs, cascading natural light into the white and black tiled room. While I’ve been proactive doing my homework, Math still proved to be the one subject that my brain refused to accept. Physics barely hung on, and that’s only because of Reno. We are partners, we pass together, we fail together- Hojo’s method of accountability to ensure everyone stays on task. Reno carried that weight. Often nudging me with his pen, or kicking me in the ankle, when my mind begins to wander to the courtyard window- dreaming of better times. 

Math was the same story, except I stared at the wall to my right, into the cracks of concrete. Black holes that swallow my thoughts. Imagining myself in scenarios that would never happen: joining a band, coming out to my friends, going to a good college. Mr. Gast’s monotone voice adds a faint harmony to the scenes. And it doesn’t halt until Reno purposely bumps my desk with his chair. 

My kitchen proves to be another distractor. I analyze the problem. I re-read the directions that swim in my head. One time. Twice. A third. The numbers blur into the X’s and Y’s on axis’s and slopes that look like rollercoasters. But the whispering wind of fall rattles the sliding doors and my eyes drift longingly to the outside world. The dried leaves swirling like a tornado and scratch at the concrete. 

And Reno’s done six problems to my one. 

And by the time he’s done, I’m less than half way. 

He comes up behind me, dragging his arms over my shoulders and leaning over to look at my work- a mess of scribbles and eraser skids. And something that may resemble the correct answer. 

“You started out strong,” he remarks, pointing to number six, “What happened there?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” I snap. 

“Okay okay,” he gently chuckles, “I ain’t making fun of you. You almost got it, you switched these two numbers around wrong. That’s it. Just look at it again.”

I give it another look, start from scratch and focus all my energy on solving for X. Even with Reno leaning against me, I can feel his breathing against the back of my head. Somehow I recall something on the board that Mr. Gast wrote- a similar problem. I mimicked the movements he demonstrated. And everytime I thought about losing myself in the curvature of the numbers, I reminded myself to stay on task. 

“There,” he stops me when x= 3/2. “You got it.” He kisses the top of my head, then aggressively rubs my hair like a petulant child until I smack him away. “I knew you could do it, pretty boy. Just have to take your time.”

“Can’t take my time when I only have fifty-five minutes to finish the test,” I retort, throwing my pencil against the table with a huff.

He plops back on the seat next to mine. “You just have to focus, like you do in English or History. Pretend you’re trying to argue a ridiculous point through solving Math problems.”

“My points aren’t ridiculous,” I glare at him and he waves the look off with a snarky grin. 

“Don’t start with me. I have to sit near you in those classes. Everytime you raise your hand, Matthews and Turnell start sweating.”

“Just because our teacher’s are not equipped to hear counter-points during a debate on the literary meaning behind a text or try to white-wash history by  _ never _ acknowledging the fact that Abraham Lincoln was racist, is not my problem. And I feel it’s my responsibility to call them out on shit.” I huff. 

He rests his head in his hand, staring at me with a bored expression.

I continue, “How are you not even going to acknowledge that I currently have 99’s in both those classes and you have, what? 65 and 75?”

“Oh!” he perks up, “We gettin’ personal over here?” He reaches over and gently pats my cheeks, “Someone’s real cute when he’s being sassy.”

I jerk back, grabbing his attacking hand, “Stop. God, you’re annoying.”

He takes this opportunity to intertwine our fingers. Homework drifts to the back burner as the sky gives way to orange and pink hues. We allow a few silent moments, our fingers dancing through each other. Skin to skin. Warm like sun kissed grass. 

“It’s cool you like English,” he smiles, “I don’t get that shit. Matthews said my ‘thesis’ wasn’t strong on our last paper- whatever that means. And I  _ hate _ those creative writing prompts he gives us in the beginning of class. The fuck I have to say?”

Deep down, I think he’d have a lot to say. But the words are stuck in the back of his throat. The little hints he sprinkles at my feet, like breadcrumbs, are evidence of a story that rotates in his subconscious. He looks at the sliding doors and I watch his eyes seemingly turn off. A vacant stare. Something I’ve done. Something I’ve seen him do on rare occasions, especially when a prompt comes down. Then he zones out and I’m the one trying to tap his desk or nonchalantly kick his seat to steal his attention back. 

And when I press him, on the rare occasion, he pinches his lips. Offers me a wavering gaze. And I note the irony that he shuts down the way I have; tables turned. But I don’t push when he starts building that wall. Assuming one day he’ll find the strength in his voice to unload his past on my lap the way I did under the orange light of a strangers bedroom. 

Or maybe he thinks I can’t shoulder his pain?

When he unlinks our fingers, we continue tackling the Math assignment. This time he helps me along each problem. At times, I snap my eyes and watch him as he explains how to solve the complex questions. The confidence in his voice, and wondered why he took such an interest in my academic achievement.

But I rationalize that these wandering thoughts that prick and prod are the parts of me that can’t help but remain suspicious of anyone's kindness. 

“You gonna eye fuck me all day, or you gonna finish this so we can smoke some weed?” He doesn’t even look at me, eyes still glued to the paper between us. But I see his lips twitch. I wish I knew what he felt when he caught me looking at him. 

If it’s the same sensation when he looks at me. 

“I can’t do both?”

And when I do, eventually finish, we lay outside on a double lounge chair and pass a joint between each other silently staring at the sun setting behind his house. And there’s no need to talk or take playful jabs at one another. Occasionally, I bring my hand to his face and he moves into the touch without a word; and it’s almost I can feel the vibrations that shudder through his body when I dance my fingers along the side of his cheeks. He mumbles something about me being oddly affectionate, and I don’t take offense because he rests his head on my shoulder. I tell him I was never like this with anyone else, and he shares the same sentiment. 

I ask if we are moving too fast. 

He doesn’t respond. 

And the question doesn’t get an answer, today, at least. But I know this road will need to be acknowledged at some point. 

We walk back inside as my father walks in through the front door, signaling the end of our time together as the oven clock blinks 6:00pm. He’s cursing about something on his phone as Reno gather’s his papers trying not to laugh because we are swimming on both a physical and emotional high. And I know for sure my eyes have to be bloodshot, and I’m terrified that my dad may actually notice for once. 

Bastian Strife strolls into the kitchen and shuts the phone off, his face lights up when he sees Reno and I. 

“This one’s new,” he says nodding to Reno.

“Oh yeah,” I stumble, “This is Reno. He just moved here.”

Reno stifles an unprovoked laugh and extends his hand to my father. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Strife.”

My dad takes his hand- and I can tell it's a firm handshake because my dad nods his head approvingly, “No No, Mr. Strife is my father and I hate him, ha! Call me Bastian.”

Reno snorts, “No….that’s not your name.” I slap my forehead and my dad looks nearly mortified at the red-heads abrupt response. Reno doesn’t even seem phased, shifting his eyes between me and my dad. “Wait, that’s  _ really _ your name? Like your parents looked at you when you were born and said ‘let’s ruin this kids childhood and put ass in his name’?”

I know all my friends  _ hate _ calling my dad by his first name. It doesn’t roll off the tongue like Claudia Strife, or Samantha Highwind, or Breanna and David Lockhart-Sanders, or even Jefferson and Rania Wallace. The only other parents with a strange name would be Jenova and Alexie Stern, but we just call them Jen and Alex. There’s no saving Bastian. Bas? B? Ass? 

I start laughing because the drugs that roll through my body muddles my brain. I look at my father, expecting him to kick Reno out or smack me upside the head for being rude. But there’s a sly grin on his face.

“You’re a snarky little shithead, aren’t you?” My dad retaliates with a slight chuckle.

“Oh you have no idea,” Reno agrees, “Probably why my parents hate me.”

“Dark…” my dad shifts to me, “I don’t know about this one.”

“Me either,” I rub my face in an attempt to hide my eyes, “But he’s helping me with Math, so I guess I’ll keep him around for now.”

My dad looks shocked, but pleased. A genuine smile on his face now when he looks back at Reno. “That so? Huh?” Then back at me, his eyes narrow a bit when he makes eye contact, and I feel my stomach turn. “You? Actually doing homework? And trying? Amazing.”

I resent the sarcasm and mumble brazen whatever; and cringe when my dad and Reno share a laugh at my expense, like they’re suddenly best buddies. 

“So,” my dad continues, “you boys eat?” He looks at me as if asking the question that hangs unspoken in the darkening kitchen.  _ Where’s your mother?  _ And  _ Is there even food in the house? _ I raise my eyes to the ceiling silently. My dad understands and purses his lips that form into a scowl. “Right. Are you staying for dinner, Reno, Nevada?”

Reno grimaces at the new nickname. “Unfortunately, I have to get back home.” I wince at the way my heart decides to sink.  _ Not this guy _ . And I feel Reno’s blues on me. “Not like my parents care about what I’m doing or how late I stay out. But my dad will find anything to shit on me about.”

“That sounds...wonderful?” My dad notes; and I see the wheels turning in his brain, “Not concerning at all. Do you need a ride home?”

“No, thanks, but I actually live behind ya’ll.”

My dad crosses his arms over his chest and slants his eyebrows, scowling at the sliding door where Reno’s house rests in the distance. “So your Don Sinclair’s kid.”

“Yes, and he absolutely hates when people call him Don, so please continue with that.”

My dad notes this as well with a nod. “I heard a rumor that your dad is trying to weasel his way into city congress. He’s a republican, right?”

“Dad,” I warn with a side eye and scowl; now he suddenly has an opinion on politics, when I am pretty sure he’s voting for Bush’s second term for no other reason than he thinks John Kerry looks shifty. 

“What? I can’t ask the kid a question?”

“You’re judging.”

“It’s okay,” Reno assures, “I judge him for being a repulican, too.”

“Okay, now I like you,” my dad chuckles. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll do something to make you hate me again.”

Ridiculous. The both of them. 

I eventually have to push Reno out of my house before he and my dad could continue. End on a high note. He bids my dad a good bye, another handshake, calls him “sir” and my dad doubles down on being called Bastian- but Reno just shakes his head. We exit through the front door. The sky a slate gray. The moon rising from the grave like a ghoul, nearly full. The evening falls to an eerie quiet calm- where no one exists on the street, but the lights from houses twinkle like a warning to the two of us. That anyone could be watching. 

“Your dad’s kinda hot,” Reno remarks and I nearly lose my shit. 

“The fuck is wrong with you?” I bite back to his laughter. 

“What? I’m just saying, I see where you get your looks,” he grins. 

I blush, “Don’t. That’s weird. I have my friends hitting on my mom, I can’t have my boyfriend hitting on my dad.” It’s the first time I refer to him as  _ my _ boyfriend, out loud, letting the wind take the word from my lips; and it tickles like a kiss. He momentarily turns away, as if to hide the small smile that twitches along his lips. Putting up a facade of chill apathy. As if the world is bearing down on us. 

We stand in silence as if both bitterly delaying the inevitable departure. No one last kiss. He shifts on his feet first, the motion jarring. “I’ll see you tomorrow, kid?”

“You thinking of coming over again?” 

He shrugs, “Yeah, why not?”

“Think you’re gonna get sick of me, eventually?

“Heh,” he ponders the question while licking his lip; an action that makes me wish we were in the safety of the basement and not exposed to the world. “I’ll just stop talkin’ to you when that happens.” Reno follows this up with another soft laugh that tells me he’s fucking with me, as usual. And I try to wrap my head around a comeback, but I just roll my eyes. 

“Corny handshake time,” he holds out his hand. 

“Not corny.” 

And it’s front, back

Drag along as an excuse to linger for half a second

Fist bump.

“Fireworks...” He whispers.

“Fireworks.”

* * *

We created a world for just the two of us. A safe haven at the bottom of an otherwise tense house. 

And in there, I found my otherwise turbulent mind rendered silent. Replaced with music from shared headphones. Sharp breaths from shared blunts. The occasional twang of a guitar. The quiet conversation against the backdrop of lasers and gunshots coming from the television. And of course, the sounds of creating colors; how it felt when we shared slow kisses under the popcorn ceiling and orange light of fading bulbs. 

The silence became a comfort I associated with his presence. And despite how mutual this felt, especially when I found him lying on my chest as we relaxed on the couch with a movie we barely acknowledged, it felt finite. Something that could be easily disrupted. 

And on one such day, where we sat on opposite sides of the couch, controllers clutched in our hands and my foot occasionally running up his leg like a snake distracting him from the game, my silent mind began to chatter. I suddenly recalled a conversation with Rufus that, at the time, I blew off as another one of his pointless barking sessions. 

Rufus appeared next to my locker in the days that followed the disaster at Kyrie’s party. And up until I had his two narrowed blue eyes bearing into me, I had actually forgotten that I blew up Scarlet’s spot in a fit of misplaced rage. But from his rigid look, the revelation played on repeat in his thoughts. I glared back with a frosty disposition; freezing my face to a vision of aloofness that twitched his left eye. I waited for the inevitable verbal attack; even though I am not the person who should be shouldering his anger.

But I’m a smaller target. 

Then he leaned against the locker to my right, relaxing his face- an act that threw me off for a moment. With the most minimal of efforts, he said simply. “I heard a rumor.”

I ground my teeth. There were many threads that statement could lead; and the most concerning lead to the disappearance of Reno and I. It didn’t matter that the current rumors that erupted from that night involved the red-head and Elena, and a potential reconciliation between Aerith and I, it only takes one single soul that saw us leave the house in the waning hours of the morning to dismantle everything. But I bit my tongue. My father always taught me, let the false accusers run their mouths into the grave.

I offered him a listless shrug. 

He sang, “Heard someone was pushing xannies at Johnny’s party?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I counter quickly. He’s late to the party; I assumed Scarlet would have told him. Unless he knew and decided to sit on this information until he could weaponize if for his own amusement. 

“Are you sure about that?” he pressed. I looked around, wondering when the hallway became devoid of life as if he had an in with the cosmos and planned this secret encounter in public. He caught me right before the homeroom bell was due to go off- just the perfect time to make me sweat the dwindling time. 

But he wasn’t budging. 

“I don’t get why you have a hardon over this?” I quietly hissed in case anyone decided to walk past us. Rumors were one thing. Actually offering a vocalized affirmation was another. At least for the likes of me. I didn’t have the pull that Rufus exploited. 

Without a concern for consequences, Rufus continued. “I’m not sure how I feel about someone encroaching on my market, Strife.”

“Elaborate.” 

“I made myself clear.”

My I built a stonewall over my face, but I twitched with confusion. The ridiculousness of the conversation. We weren’t the only two who partook in this nefarious activity. Genesis probably would end both of our budding criminal careers if he cared at all. So I couldn’t grasp the attraction to my deeds. Scarlet appeared in my head again. The second or third customer that night, her slender arms around my neck. Her slurred negotiations. The few members of her group, the rich white kids who only party with someone on the bottom of the class system because the house he offers, filing in after her in that den of despair and desperation. 

“Are you talking about a turf war?” I snorted and he clenched his jaw at my disrespect. I shook my head; sixteen-years-old and I’m about to be embroiled in a war over selling prescription drugs. That’s entirely too much attention. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and even if I did- are you fucking  _ new _ ? Why are you doing this now?” I gestured at the empty hallway. 

But Rufus laughed. A hearty alien laugh filled with an air of control I almost envied. “In the school? I have this place wrapped around my finger, you have no idea.”

Rufus Shinra, my silent oppressor. Years spent along the same academic career. Never directing even a sour word in my direction, but would cast displeased glares that bore in a crack in my mind like an insect. That crawls like a phantom down my spine. 

And I have no idea why the unrest. 

And I’ve grown bored with his false sense of royalty. Like he’s the king of this castle.

And maybe it’s time to do away with archaic adolescent monarchies. 

“You think you run this place because your dad is the Borough President?” I seethed, “Are you too stupid to realize that B.Ps have no real power? An image. One that’s been fading for years. You got nothing but a name that holds no meaning. Your father has no real power on this island- and neither do you.”

“Watch it,” he warned and I felt my body quake with amusement. The facade slowly evaporated from his stiff blues. 

“What are you going to do, Shinra? Snitch like a little bitch? This is New York. You think ratting anyone out is going to get you far here, kid? You got nothing on me. You swing your dick around like you're overcompensating. Acting tough so no one finds out you’re a fucking fraud.”

When I allowed myself a moment to think over my retaliation, I wondered if I meant to sling those words exclusively towards Rufus. If there wasn’t another crack in my mind where another insect dwelled, that played off my insecurities like a violin. And I felt that maybe Rufus also guided his missiles towards me to avoid actually accosting the one who really was more deserving. 

But in the moment, I only felt a sense of pride when doubt flushed his eyes. 

The first bell signaling homeroom cracked along the empty hallway like thunder. Signaling the end of our time together. He gathered himself off the locker, and gave me one last rigid look directly through my eyes like a bullet. 

“Careful, Cloud,” his low voice rumbled like a disturbed volcano, “You’ve been making more enemies than friends, recently. I’d watch my back if I were you.” 

I should have considered his words carefully. Instead I allowed them to bury themselves in the back of an already chaotic mind, until comfortable silence brought them back to the surface. That was weeks ago? Or a week ago? I acknowledge that my attention fell upon someone else; but that someone spends the occasional lunch leaving with the group that surrounds Shinra. And they traverse the hallways together like a mob. And if even if that someone would rather spend his afternoons with me, the breath of weekend calls has him torn. And what exactly do they discuss when my back’s turn?

“Are you fucking spawn killing me?” Reno’s gruff voice rattles me and I snap my eyes to the red-head; now sitting upright and hunched over squinting at the television. 

I realize I have been playing on auto-pilot running to the spawn sites on Battle Creek. “Uh, perhaps…”

“You  _ memorized _ the spawn locations?” He grips his controller as he tries to get his character away from my guy- and I offer him a few minutes reprieve. “You fucking nerd, how often do you play this game?”

“My friends and I play it all the time and this is one of the smallest maps in the game.” I push select; he hasn’t gotten a kill on me. I need three more for game over. He mumbles a low  _ fuckin ass _ , and stares intently at the screen. My head drifts back to the conversation with Rufus-  _ more enemies than friends- _ and I try to consider the meaning behind his warning words. 

“Hey so,” I start and Reno grunts in acknowledgement, “Does Rufus Shinra ever talk about me?”

I dart my eyes to the red-head, who offers a perplexed look while still focused on his character running out in the open of the map- not even attempting to duck for cover. “Uh, why, do you want me to put in a good word?” He mocks, slightly shaking his head. 

“Obviously not,” I snap, “I’m just asking if you all talk about me?” I cringe at how pathetic I sound as I line up my sniper.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I try not to talk about you.”

I flinch, though the comment is expected considering the terms of our relationship. “Okay, but did he mention anything- like how I told him Scarlet fucked Seph?”

His lips curve into a grin, “Oh shit, I forgot that was you.” I watch his character scramble to grab the shotgun through the scope and wait for the perfect time to blow his head off. He ponders my question and I can see out of my peripheral vision his leg bouncing. “He didn’t say shit about that. What’s he gonna do? Tell us Seph banged his girl and he ain’t doing anything about it? How’s that going to look-  **motherfucker!** ” He tosses the controller aggressively on the coffee table as his character’s head spins 360 degrees and collapses on the floor. “I swear to fuck, if you kill me  _ one more time _ , I’m gonna punch this...wall!”

“Woah there,” I chuckle, my eyes wide as I watch Reno rub his eyes to re-adjust his vision and then grab the controller with a loud, angry, huff. “Take a chill pill, babe. You’re up here,” I raise my hand up towards the ceiling, “You need to be down here.” I purposely drop my hand over my crotch and smirk while Reno just shoots me a feverish glare. 

“I’m really fucking competitive,” he grimaces, looking back at the T.V, “I don’t like losing.”

“Well get used to it, because I’m really fucking good at this game.” 

“Put something else in. I’m not playing this with you anymore.” He says as he continues to frantically move his character around the map trying to find where my sniper shot came from. 

“You’re being a baby,” I grumble, lining up another shot. “But...seriously, did Rufus mention anything else?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you while I’m trying to murder your ass.” He hisses. I shoot him dead. He bites his lip to prevent him from actually punching the wall; but I fear my xbox controller is about to be snapped in half. He takes a heavy breath, shaking his head with more fever. “Why do you want to talk about this anyway?”

I let his character feel safe for a moment and don’t immediately blow his brains out when he runs past my scope. I try to think of how to phrase my next thought- without coming off accusatory or guilty. “He approached me a few weeks ago to ask me about selling drugs; he wanted to know if I had a xanax hook up and if I was selling at Johnny’s party.”

Reno’s character pauses for a moment. I turn to the red-head whose, now, vacant eyes rests on the large black controller in his hand. I notice the way he drags his tongue through his teeth while he’s thinking. Which begs the question, of why he has to think about anything. It’s a simple question.

“He asked me if I saw you selling xan at the party,” he finally admits. “But I told him I barely remember you being there.”

“So you  _ do  _ talk about me?” There’s an edge to my voice that slips past. 

“No one fucking talks about you,” he shoots back with an irate tone that I don’t expect. He rests his forehead against his fist, as if realizing he fucked up. I pull the trigger and end the game.    
  


“I win.” I grumble; victory no longer tasting as fresh. 

“Cloud,” his voice flushed with an apology he won’t utter, “No one in my group of friends has a problem with you. I don’t know who fed you that lie, but it’s just not true.”

I shake my head but refuse to look at him, “Rufus practically threatened me the other day.”

“I really don’t know anything about that. He’s probably tight that you sold drugs to his girl and wants to make you sweat a bit.”

“Sounds like you’re making excuses for him.”

There’s a new silence that drifts over us like a storm. I look over at him on the other side of the couch, leaning back with his arms over his chest staring into a void in space. He takes harsh breath, which I figured is his attempt to calm whatever rising anger threatens to overflow. 

“Can my friends be my friends and you just be my boyfriend- and I’m not put in the middle of whatever bullshit drama ya’ll had before I showed up here?” I offer him up a sigh and he quickly continues before I have a chance to argue. “Rufus is complicated. He lives in the shadow of his dad and his grandfather. There’s expectations placed on him that he can’t even process right now. So he over does it sometimes, I agree. But he ain’t gonna do shit.” 

I arch an eyebrow. “How can you be sure?”

“Do you really think, if push comes to shove, I’m going to let him do anything to you?” He finally brings his eyes to rest on me and he looks sincere- staring directly into me as if upset that I would even infer that his loyalty wouldn’t lie with me. “No but offense, you’re an easy target,” he continues with a bitter tongue and I scrunch my face as if I swallowed a shot of whiskey. “You wear your emotions on your face. So he feels he can get inside your head and it makes him feel better about himself. But I would never let him actually try to get you in trouble. Or hurt you. I promise.”

My stomach sinks despite the conviction in his voice, and I find myself staring at the abyss that forms through my fingers resting on my lap. There were other promises made under a setting sun. Secrets that needed to be maintained. He was honestly telling me he would risk that by defending me? And as if he heard my strangled throughs, he rises from the couch and kneels in front of me; his arms resting on my lap and eyes tense, yet inviting as I lose myself in pools of blues. 

“Rufus and I aren’t best buddies,” he affirms, “We just hang a lot because my dad has a boner for his father. It’s pretty pathetic, honestly.” He takes my left hand and dances his fingers along my calloused digits- and I take notice that the cuts on his knuckles look more fresh than usual. “So, don’t start thinkin’ that Rufus Shinra is more important to me than you.” 

I find another crack in my brain and I fill it with his words. 

It’s easier to accept the silent comfort than dwell on the loud doubts that rattle like an earthquake. 

And like an unknown power, his kiss seals the deal and the conversation fizzles out. 

* * *

An unspoken rule envelopes the quiet moments; that discussion of our separate groups of friends will not, or can not, penetrate the wall we created around ourselves. But I knew that would be short lived. It was one of the many shadows in the room that crawled along the walls like a spectator ready to announce its presence. And with the weekend upon us, it became entirely too difficult to ignore the dings that echo through the basement. 

In between races in  _ Mario Kart _ , we cautiously checked out phones. Silently. Without acknowledging the other one was doing so. I had two texts- Barret and Cid- and a miss call from Tifa. As I was looking through the phone, another ping with her name  _ Tifasaurus Rex _ popping up with one of her famous passive-aggressive (mostly aggressive) texts. The general consensus though: party at Johnny’s this weekend. My attendance is apparently mandatory. I flash my eyes at Reno, who has taken to laying on the couch with his legs on my lap, eyes narrowed at his phone as he texts back a mysterious person. 

“Party this weekend?” I break the silence like glass. 

“Yah,” he mutters, “Angeal’s place.”

“That’s not the intel I’m getting,” I sigh. 

“I’m sure you’re invited,” he flips the phone closed, “Sephiroth is your buddy.”

“Seph is grounded until further notice,” I look back at the phone; with the exception of our mostly silent drive to and from school, Sephiroth hasn’t exactly tried reaching out this week. “Plus, Tifa is the one I need to see and she wants to go to Johnny's.”

Reno frowns, “Really? Not a fan of that kid- or his place.”

I agree, “I’d rather just go to Vinny’s place and play _ Halo  _ at that point.”

“Which one’s Vinny?” 

“Really pale kid. Long black hair. Kinda looks like a vampire.” 

He shrugs, “Are we finishing this cup or what?” 

My fingers glide over my phone's dial pad, as I think over what I’m supposed to say to my trio of friends. All with the same demands. But his foot rubbing against me pulls me away from my friends. 

“Okay okay,” I throw the phone next to me and gently shoving his foot as punishment for attempting to distract me. 

We start up the next race, but I’m not focused on my tiny pixelated Yoshi. And seemingly, neither is Reno as Bowser, who crashes almost immediately into a wall when his phone goes off again. A heavy sigh escapes both our throats almost in unison as we recognize at the end of the first lap- putting up one of my worst times on Banshee Boardwalk-that we have to address the people at the other end of these texts. 

“So,” I start, curling my lips, and hitting him with a red shell that sends him off the map, “You going to go to Angeal’s party?”

“Uhm,” he pauses while his character is rescued, “Yeah. I mean. Are you going to Johnny’s house?”

“I might not have a choice,” I murmur, “I blew off Tifa the other day and she’s kinda tight about it still.”

I look over as he rolls his eyes. And I’m distracted enough that he slams into me with a star. I mutter a curse as my poor Yoshi tries to recover. We continue the race, the only sound coming from the frantic music as we enter the third lap. The ghostly boos. The destruction of our respective vehicles as we sling shells. But I’m grinding my teeth. My chest feels like a barrel of broken nerves, frayed and fractured. 

“We can go to different parties,” I suddenly blurt out as if answering a question neither of us asked.

“Yeah, of course,” he responds, but I note the uncertainty in his voice that drops over every word- as if someone else spoke them. “We don’t  _ have  _ to always go to the same parties.”

“We see each other every day.”

“Yeah, it’s one day.”

“Are you still coming over Sunday to watch football, by the way?”

“Yeah, definitely, you said you get every single game?

“My dad sprung for Sunday Ticket because he likes to gamble on the games with his friends.”

“Nice,” Reno grins, “The Titans have a bye, but I like watching the Patriots.”

“I forgot you’re from Tennessee,” I smirk as I slam into his kart right as I cross the finish line. “And why the Patriots?”

He places the controller on his stomach and sighs. “Tom Brady.” 

“Oh? Excuse you.” I toss the controller on the table and crawl on top of him. “Tom Brady? Seriously?”

“I’m sorry, are ridiculously good looking athletic men  _ not _ your type?” He glides his fingers along my face-and I sense the torn nerves in my chest stitch together- until they are buried in my blonde hair. He pulls aggressively so our lips collide. I knock the controller that dared to rest on his body and replace it with my chest. And by the time our tongues flick against each other sending shivers down my body, another conversation falls into that crack that I cover with passion. And lie that we’ll address these brewing questions another day as our phones light up. 

Because today, the world only exists in this room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you everyone who leaves me comments! You guys rock my socks!  
> I wasn't sure of this chapter too much since it's basically a few snap shots of their relationship. I also wanted an excuse to include the scene with Reno and Cloud's dad.  
> Also some breadcrumbs and whole pieces of bread lurk within this chapter ~_~
> 
> Let me know what ya'll think! Thanks for reading!


	16. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want some typical Staten Island drama?  
> Cause you're getting some typical Staten Island drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW:  
> A lot of offensive cursing.  
> Some slut shaming  
> Underage drinking

Chapter Sixteen: Sanctuary 

I can’t tell who Tifa hates more from her glare: Cid or I. 

But she scans the two of us with her artificial red eyes, arms crossed over her chest, as we smoke a cigarette outside Johnny’s place.

I had called her first, when Reno and I took a break from making out on my couch to smoke weed and get in touch with our fans. Through hushed voices, we accepted the invitations to the Saturday night festivities while dodging Friday night plans in favor of ordering food and watching movies. Reno being more forthcoming with Rude, though never actually saying my name, got him off his back. But I required an entire closing statement, pacing back and forth in my backyard while puffing on the joint, to get my friends off my back. 

And I’m starting to grow tired of justifying my choices. Tifa felt like I was hiding something from her. Which I guess is fair. But I mentally note, while dodging her look, that I need to have a conversation about  _ boundaries _ with my life long friend. 

A chilling wind crushes through my leather jacket, and the fingerless gloves offer some reprieve, but I note that maybe it might be time to retire the ripped jeans as Autumn would quickly give way to Northern winter frost. Cid and Barret discuss the upcoming school football playoffs; the Archers have a good shot at winning. There’s a few other souls sitting on Johnny’s stoop engaging in their own conversations- Leslie Kyle, one of them, who eyes me with suspicion. I shake my head slowly at him as I take a drag and he huffs, turning back to his buddy disappointed. I start feeling warm despite the cold. Like hundreds of eyes are lighting my body on fire with their glares. 

The ones who remember code words under a warm summer night.

And the ones who hate me for it. 

We enter the house, loud metal music already blasting through Johnny’s stereo which definitely wouldn’t be played at Angeal’s so one point for white trash. I hardly recognize anyone at this place. Tifa is more familiar with her crew, getting hugs from boys in Tripp pants who hold her just a little too long and grilling Cid and I who return the look. Vinny hits me with his bottle of vodka and I turn him down- I’m not in the mood to black out. I’m not even in the mood to be here right now. Biggs and Wedge have taken over the beer pong table in the kitchen, going up against Jessie and Yuffie. Everyone else blurs in front of my vision- some I know from outside the 7/11 in New Dorp, or from outside the Hot Topic at the Staten Island Mall, or Miller Field where we play football in the summer. We nod as we pass each other, none of use remembering each other’s names and Tifa never introduces us. 

And it’s a different type of anxiety as we navigate through the small house. My body caving into itself, like a dying star. And I can’t tell if it’s because I was doing illicit activities the last time I stumbled through this place or if it's the sheer population of people I don’t know occupying the same space. The last time, I surrounded myself with enemies. Now, I’m surrounded by strangers.

Unpredictable. 

We all open a beer, hanging out in the kitchen. Cid tries to sign us up for beer pong, but I decline.

“What do you mean you don’t want to play?” he shouts. 

I shrug, “Not in the mood to play drinking games.”

“What's wrong with you, bro?” It’s more of an argument than a question. 

“I’m just not feelin’ it tonight,” I push back. 

Barret halts the incoming protest with agreeing to play on my behalf, and offers me a concerned gaze for the trouble. 

Broken conversations swirl around me, igniting my brain. I feel chills run through my head and dizziness takes over. I tell my friends I’m going outside to roll a blunt and push my way out the back door before they have a chance to question me further. The air offers a reprieve from the fire I feel flush my skin. And I wonder when I became such a pussy. No one occupies the backyard, too cold, and I take refuge on one of the chairs near a vacant fire pit that must be new. Taking a few sharp breaths of frost that stings my lungs. I snap my eyes towards the back of the house- the muffled conversations leaking through the cracks in the door. Loud. Too loud. I nurse my beer, which I never do, and stare blindly through the brown Bud Light bottle. 

My phone vibrates and I fish it out of my jean pocket expecting it to be Tifa. But instead  _ Nevada _ pops on screen.

**U said Seph was grounded?**

I knit my eyebrows together and text back yes. I did try calling the silver-haired boy today- our last talk in his mother’s car had been tense, to say the least, barely responding to any of my questions- but it rang three times before going to voicemail. 

And I’ve noticed we’ve been battling for conversation during this week. After his mother stopped her berating, we fell into a disturbed silence. The occasional question about school. Or the inquisition as to who I was texting when my eyes would drift to my phone. Sandwiched in between nothing. 

Reno texts back:  **u sure about dat?**

It’s extremely possible that he made life hell in that house enough to make his parents give up on punishing him. I’ve seen it before. But the fact that he wouldn’t reach out to me was the shocking part. And maybe he did blame me for his position. Apparently, I haven't exactly been a good friend. Abandoned Seph at a party. Blowing off Tifa. Never acknowledging Cid’s brooding over Bigg’s growing presence in the raven haired girl’s life. 

But that’s a lot of different threads. And I can barely focus on one, let alone three. 

My phone starts ringing and I jump at the sudden sound of my ringtone echoing through the quiet night. 

“What?” I question him when I answer. 

“Wow, ‘what’,” Reno bites back but I can practically hear the smile, “That anyway to talk to  _ me? _ ”

I huff, “Sorry, wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“How’s the party over there?” He asks and I note the silence that follows his question; like there’s no one in the room with him. 

“Not sure, kinda being anti-social,” I admit, “How’s Angeals?”

“Yeah it fuckin’ blows,” he groans, “Got a few people who want a change of scenery.”

“Oh? Like who?”

“Aerith,” he says suddenly and my chest sizes when he utters her name, but he continues. “She wants to bail. Don’t blame her. I was thinking of taking her over to Johnny’s if ya’ll were going to be there for a bit?”

I nod, dumbly, forgetting I am on the phone before stuttering an answer. “Yeah, I’ll- I mean everyone is playing pong and I’m sure flip cup is gonna happen soon.”

“Sweet, one more thing. Is Tifa there?”

Now, I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“Oh,” he drawls, “Someone’s protective of his big titty goth girlfriend.”

I hate how bitter his voice tastes. “Shut up...she’s here, why?”

“Oh well a very close friend- so close you might actually call us cousins- might be more inclined to change locations if a certain cute rocker chick is hanging out.”

I frown out in the open, but scold myself for being so predictable. Reno informs me they’ll be there in about 15 minutes with more beer and hangs up. And even though I am annoyed that yet another hormone driven boy has taken interest in my best friend, my lips twitch into a smile. Some of the pressure on my brain seems to lift and I can enjoy the safety of the quiet night. But a sense of guilt chases that feeling, for a moment. A question of why in the presence of my friends, I suddenly feel insecure. 

My longest friends. 

I chew my bottom lip and allow myself exactly three seconds to consider some of the questions that have come up that I pushed in the back like unwanted socks in a drawer. Am I moving too fast? Can I trust someone who associates himself with people who don’t like me? And my friends, the ones I’ve freely lied to in the course of our years together, how long before they start to take these lies personally? 

Vinny appears before me handing me a beer. I take some solace in his vacant expression; he doesn’t look like he’s having fun either. Vinny would rather be at home playing video games. Something he and I always had in common. He’s already making quiet comments about hating everyone.

The house...

The location...

What he could be doing.

I mention him talking to some girls and he shrugs. 

“If they want me they can come to me,” he mumbles. 

I know he’s setting up the script to manipulate everyone to go back to his place. Thus the beer, a peace offering and an excuse to scan my face to see if he’ll have to drag me out by my hair or I’ll be one of his supporters. And if Reno wasn’t close by, I’d probably shoulder that role. But I offer him nothing. I tell him if he gets a game of Kings going I’ll play. I remind him, he should try to get everyone black out drunk and we’ll take bets on who passes out first. The idea seems to breathe life into his pale face and he snatches his vodka and heads back in the house. 

A man of few words with a mind made for evil. 

Probably why I like him so much.

I start rolling the blunt, since that was my excuse for leaving the crowded indoors- and it would probably raise more questions if I was found by anyone  _ other _ than Vinny staring in the half empty bottle of beer warming in my hands. The wind makes it difficult, but I manage to roll the perfect blunt. And I’m admiring my handy work when the screen door slams shut and someone approaches me with light footsteps. My heart races when I see the red-head, hands in pocket, looking back to make sure no one followed him outside. 

Reno stands in front of me for a second-taking a look at me with narrowed eyes and head tilted to the side- before he takes a seat on the chair that faces the back of the house. “You weren’t kiddin’ about being antisocial, huh?” he remarks. 

My cheeks flush, “I’m rolling a blunt and don’t want the vultures to descend on me asking for a hit.”

He nods as if he accepts my answer. “I’m surprised you weren’t in there playing pong with Cid. He and Barret are crushing everyone.”

“Not in the mood to get fucked up,” I shrug, “So, was the party that lame?”

“Everyone was on somethin’,” his face scrunches in disapproval. “I’m not a pussy or anything-I like smokin’ and shit-but once you start introducing pills, I’m out. People just passing out on couches or being too rowdy. Not my scene.”

I frown, feeling a bit judged with his comments even if he didn’t mean to direct them at me, per say. I try to shake it off, staring at the blunt in my hand to keep my eyes off him in case someone were to wander out here. “Speaking of smoking, you want?”

“Why do you think I’m out here?” he chuckles, “ _ just  _ to see you? Ha.”

I flash him a look and he’s smirking in my direction. And I can’t help but admire the way the lines that stitch his face together seem to tense and chisel his already strong features. Always looking like a villain under the moonlight that cast suspicious shadows across his pale skin. 

A beautiful villain. With blue eyes that seem as unnatural as his messy red hair.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that, pretty boy,” he purrs, “and I’m going to have to find a way to get you home.”

I dart my eyes back at the blunt as I light it, adding to the heat that rises in my cheeks, and try to suppress the grin that stretches across my face. The loud thoughts that raged before quiet as I welcome Reno’s lingering gaze that I feel press into me. The addition of the erupting tingles that set my skin vibrating relaxes me into a false sense of security.

How easy it is to forget the risk of several sets of eyes lurking just beyond the green screen door?

But he and I talk freely as if in the safety of the basement. He informs me that Aerith, Tseng, Reeve, and Rude accompanied him to Johnny’s. Rude had been a little more reluctant to leave- also not feeling the desolation of this house tucked away in New Dorp- but the promise he could talk to my friend got him to comply with Reno’s demands. 

“I don’t like you pimping out my friend,” I scold as we pass the blunt between each other. 

“I ain’t pimping her out,” he retorts, “All I said was Tifa’s here and this maybe his chance to stop being a pussy and talk to her.”

“I don’t know,” I trail off running my tongue behind my teeth thinking about the idea of Rude Sinclair trying to court Tifa. “I think she’s seeing that kid Biggs now.”

He shrugs, “it happens, it doesn’t. No skin off my bones, yo.” he takes a long drag and blows the smoke towards the starless sky. “Have you been out here all night?”

“Yeah,” I take the blunt from his hand, suddenly giggling at the way his hand feels for a moment. “I’m not really feelin’ it. I’m not sure why.”

The conversation pauses; I hear some shouts coming from the house- sounds like Cid winning another game of pong. And I do feel a ping of jealousy that he’s having fun without my presence. Which then makes me feel like shit. And I wish that I would make up my mind on what I actually want from tonight. 

Then Reno’s soft laugh pulls my attention, “Why do people go to parties, Cloud?” I try thinking for a minute- but my head feels heavy from the smoking. I think about the socialization aspect. The desire to kill our brain cells with underage drinking. That we’ve been told, through movies we have no business watching at a young age, that High School is about getting wasted at parties and engaging in absurd shenanigans. And if you weren’t part of that crowd, you were a loser. 

But Reno continues, “You went to parties to get drunk and find someone to make out with. Right? Be a part of the crowd, follow along with their expectations.” He flashes his eyes at me for a moment before returning to the abyss above, “You don’t feel like doing that anymore.  _ We  _ don’t have to look for anyone to get with.” 

It had been on the tip of my tongue, but the pleasure that came from hearing it uttered from his low voice felt better than the high that wrecked my body. It sounded more like confirmation than implication. And what I wouldn’t give to glide my hand towards his; and I watch with sadness as his fingers twitch and curve as he fights against his own instincts. Still staring at the blackness overheard that offers no sanctuary. 

And the script I created before the school year has blown away and now I’m not sure about lines I’m supposed to recite. 

My anxiety should flare like enraged sun. 

But it simply doesn’t.

A creak sounds the alarms, however. And Reno and I look up to see Jesse and Yuffie approach us, with beers and coy smiles.

“Is that the chick who sweats you?” he whispers and I nod. 

The chick in question, with her light brunette hair gathered in a high pony tail, dramatically sits on my lap. I grunt at the sudden intrusion of my space; the dangerous closeness she came to crushing my  _ friend _ who has a mind of its own. But from the way she wraps her arms around my neck and smiles with sick pleasure, she thinks she had something to do with what’s happening in my pants. And I feel absolutely shit now. My anxiety lights the match. I tense immediately as Reno passes me the blunt, and I have to resist looking at him as I take it. 

“Where have you been?” she coos, her words drenched in liquor that emits from her breath. 

“Here,” I murmur and take a hit. 

“Care to share,” she wiggles her slender fingers at the stick in my hand. 

“Got five on it?” I respond blankly and her gasps at the  _ audacity. _

“Are you serious?” She hisses, dropping her arms from my neck, which offers some reprieve to the strangled feeling that seizes me. 

“Now Cloud, is that anyway to treat a lady?” Reno snarks and I turn to see his sinister grin plastered on his face. He doesn’t even look an ounce concerned with her shifting on my lap to get comfortable. I glare at him as a warning but he turns his attention to Jessie. “I got you, girl.”

“Oh?’ She muses as she gently takes the blunt from my hand, “Do you? What’s your name red?”

His eye twitches, “Reno, I got to school with Strife over here.”

She extends a hand that he takes, “Jessie, this is Yuffie.” Yuffie smiles with affection as she lingers her gaze on Reno. And he repeats the polite gesture to the younger girl, who giggles uncontrollably at the moderate attention she’s receiving. The four of us make small talk while we smoke. Jessie questions Reno’s accent, which he immediately attempts to cover up with over enunciation of his words. She interrogates how we became friends. Why he never seems to be around our group. She slurs her words and laughs at every answer. And I wonder what made her like this? She’s pretty. She has hobbies and interests that expand outside of the parties we attend. And there’s other, more intriguing men, that would be happy to have her on their lap. 

And I wonder if I said anything in moments of missing memories, false promises, that made her find me when her mind turned hazy.

Maybe because I haven’t done anything to her. 

Maybe I’m ironically the safest person in this house. It makes my stomach churn, like a budding memory that I buried in another crack in my brain trying to emerge. 

She leans into me and my whole body turns stiff. “You know there’s other chairs, right?” I grumble softly. 

Jessie either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care. And Reno’s no help. Who sits there with his head resting in his fist like he does in Religion, rambling off answers to her intrusive questions. And I’m thinking of the best way to plan my escape- and maybe take him with me- when I spy Aerith exiting the house. 

Her arms wrapped around her small frame. She’s wearing a white sweater dress with black tights and flats, which may have been fine when the sun offered a reprieve from the cold, but with the night slowly drowning into the frigid air, I can see how she shivers. Her long hair done in a side braid- and she looks ethereal under the glow of the yellow porch light. And I wonder why she’s wandered out here, alone. 

I pick Jessie up- she squeals at the sudden motion-and drop her on the now empty seat. “Be right back, don’t smoke all the weed,” I say to Reno who narrows his blue eyes at me, but nods anyway. 

I haven’t talked to Aerith since Kyrie’s party. She never returned my apology texts and I never caught her during school hours- and even if I did, I wouldn’t even know where to begin- we don’t have any of the same classes except Religion, and she usually flies out of that room like a bat out of hell and I can’t help but wonder if that’s partly due to me. I don’t have the words I’m going to say in the back of my throat. I’m blank even as I approach her. And she’s standing alone which I realize again, like a delay in my brain, and a halt. 

Because I feel  _ wrong _ . Like a predator. 

And the whole idea makes my mouth sewn shut when I’m finally close enough that she can sense me. She turns to me and I watch her green eyes scrutinize my form. She folds her arms tightly over her chest and she pursed her lips as if waiting for me to say something first. But I got nothing. Waves crash in my lungs that makes me feel overwhelmed. 

Maybe noticing my uncomfortable look, she starts, “Hi, Cloud.”

“Hey,” I mutter, “How’s it going?”

She shrugs, “It’s fine. Just hanging out.”

“I heard the other party was a bust,” I shove my hands in my pockets and try to stop swaying on my feet. Steady myself. Find the center. “Heard you were trying to bounce.”

And then, a smile that I haven’t seen in months cracks along her face, “Oh? Is that the rumor, now?” She peers behind me with a daring smirk upon her lips now. “Is that what he told you?”

My tongue swells. I peer behind me and met with both Reno and Jessie staring daggers at me for probably different reasons. Or maybe the same. I wait until they turn back to one another and resume their conversation, and look back at Aerith. “Uh, yeah...I mean...he said a few people were trying to leave so-”

She giggles, and I feel like the butt of a joke only she knows. Then she grabs my hand- her fingers soft as they wrap around mine and my heart nearly stops. More so because I can just  _ feel _ Reno’s rageful blues shooting me from behind. She gently tugs me towards the side of the house, apparently for more privacy. And I am completely outside my body. 

Out of control. I just let her lead the way, much like I did a few weeks ago. Or was that even a month ago? I’m not even sure where I am these days. Locking myself in an artificial heaven I created. Now I’m exposed. 

We find a darkened spot under some trees and next to a broken fence. I attempt to quickly regain control of the conversation. “I actually...wanted to talk to you about Kyrie’s party.” I take a second to form my thoughts, her hand casually drops from mine without a second thought. “I wanted to apologize for...everything I did and said. I know being fucked up isn’t an excuse. And maybe that’s not what I should be trying to find- excuses. I’m just sorry. And I hope...maybe one day I can...do something that would make you believe that-”

“Cloud,” she stops me with her finger against my lips, “It’s okay. Well. It’s not. but...I know it wasn’t personal.”

I blink a few times and she removes her finger. “I-uh.” I stumble, “Thanks for covering for me that night too…”

“Well,” she rocks back and forth on her feet, “I actually did that more for him than you. I was still really angry, Cloud. But…” She sighs, “When I found you, I saw how uncomfortable he was, but he didn’t want to leave you. He told me how upset you were. And I covered so he wouldn’t have to go.”

My eyes make friends with the ground and my dirty Converses that have seen better days. “You’re...not going to tell anyone, right?”

“Oh God, no!” She shouts a little too loud and I snap my widen eyes at her. She instantly pinches her mouth shut and swallows hard before continuing. “I mean, I would never. That’s such a terrible thing to do to a person. Even if I was furious at you, Cloud, even if I hated you- which I have- I would never do that.”

I nod, and I believe her words. The passion behind them. The odd kind of familiar that I can’t place my finger on. And my heart feels panicked as it rumbles against my rib cage. And I stutter out a question that I probably and better off not asking. “So you...know something?”

And she relaxes her shoulders, with a beautiful smile that looks so innocent. “Cloud, I’ve known for a while. Before I had a certain boy, who I barely know, in my face asking me if I wanted to go to another party.”

A gentle laugh manages past my lips. “Oh, so I guess that wasn’t your idea.”

She shakes her head. “No. But I think he feels he can trust me enough, so I took one for the team.”

I am grateful for darkness that hides the red in my cheeks; but I note the slight pain from a smile that often doesn’t appear. And I remember how easy she was to talk to. And maybe I did miss a part of her. The part of her that was outside of me. 

“How did you know, by the way?” I dare to ask.

I see the burn in her own pale cheeks. “Oh, please, Cloud. Don’t make me say it.”

“What?” I knit my eyebrows. 

“Nope,” she covers her face, shaking her head but I push her again. “Cloud you straight up told me you rather play  _ Halo _ than have sex.”

“Yeah so?” I argue back, “I mean a lot of guys probably…”

She removes her hands and slowly shakes her head no while stifling a laugh. “It’s really okay. We were probably too young to be doing all that.” She pauses to think, “It was more of a suspicion, anyway. I really didn’t realize till my mom and then I put the pieces together-”

“Wait, what about your mother?”

She tilts her head to the side, “My mom is a lesbian, Cloud. You know that.”

“Since when?! She was married to your dad!” 

Now she plainly looks at me like I’m a complete idiot. “Who do you think Elmyra is?”

“You’re mom’s best friend, right?” I feel gears churning in my head. Iflana is Aerith’s mom, she divorced her dad when Aerith was three- though they remained good friends. Around the time we became friends in high school, her mom had a best friend who would come over most days. Sometimes going as far as picking Aerith up from school if her mom couldn’t take a break at the dentist office. And before we broke up they took a vacation to Jamaica- oh.

“Cloud, they’re best friends like you and  _ him _ ,” she huffs, “I  _ told _ you this! Remember? I was really confused and you tried to comfort me but you were playing your stupid video game the whole time?”

“Wow,” I nod, and as if a light bulb shatters in my head, “I’m a pretty terrible boyfriend.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” she sighs, “Maybe you’ll be better this time round?” She nods in the direction of the group we left behind. Then she does something that shocks me. Aerith takes two steps closer, until our bodies are dangerously close, and wraps her arms around my neck- pulling me into a hug. I hesitate for a few moments, trying to wrap my elevated mind around what’s actually happening. Then, I bring my arms around her - and I had forgotten how tiny she is- and return the affection. 

“That’s what you can do, Cloud,” she whispers in my ear, “Just do better.”

And I know what she means. 

And even though it’s only three words, it sounds like a hefty list of demands. 

Do better. With everything.

“Well  _ hallo thar,” _ Reno’s voice penetrates the hug and we pull away. “How’s it going,  _ buddy _ .”

I turn to him and smile warmly, which he doesn’t return, at first. “Just chilling.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a whole lotta chilling I’m seeing,” he waves his hand around the scene before him.

“Actually, we were just coming back,” Aerith sasses, “Don’t get all dramatic.”

He narrows his eyes at the green-eyed girl, “Whose dramatic? Me? Never!”

Aerith giggles and I try not to follow suit, since I’m going to be the one shouldering his drama when she safely exits. “We were just coming back to finish the blunt,” I tell him, “ _ Don’t worry _ .”

His face nearly matches his hair. “Not worried. We were going to smoke the whole thing without you, shit. I was trying to be nice to get y'all, but I see you’re busy.” 

Aerith prances over to the red-head, who looks as apprehensive as ever with his arms over his chest, and gives him a hug. “So you don’t feel left out, Red.” He rolls his eyes but drops his arms; though he doesn’t return the hug. She releases him from her grasp and skips over to the rest of the small group we left behind. 

Just the two of us now, surrounded by long grass and crickets that chirp. I walk closer to him, and he watches me with his eyes that look like two stars against the empty night. 

“You good?” he asks.

I want to touch him so bad. And part of me realizes now what he meant about this being hard- being a secret. But I smile, one he returns this time. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“You two besties now?” he chuckles. 

“Apparently, so are you two.” 

He doesn’t deny the observation. Shrugs his tense shoulders and drifts his eyes to the ground. There’s a rise in the temperature between us and I feel like we are two magnets being pushed apart. And I want to close this terrible distance. Be close enough that I can smell the Old Spice. Our breaths grow heavy, and I’m worried if I don’t kiss him, something stupid would happen.

Like I’ll break.

Or the world would end.

And it’s not logical-

But fuck logic. 

I hate every wandering eye. 

And that I can’t run my fingers through his hair.

He shoves his hands in his pockets while they twitch and protest the action. 

And we bite our lips to stop them from meeting. 

“I wish we were home,” I whisper. 

“Same.”

“We should get back before we do something stupid,” I murmur. 

He finally brings his eyes to me, flushed with passion he can’t act upon. “So close to doin’ it too,” he admits. “Never felt this way. ‘Bout to ruin my life for you.”

“Oh!” I push past all my other instincts, like ruining our lives for one kiss, and use my fist to give him a noogie on his head, messing up all the effort he put into his spiky hair. “Ruin your life, huh? You are dramatic!”

He whacks my head hair, “Fuckin jackass, it took me forever to do this!” I spy the smile on his lips when he pushes me away. 

And just that enough of a simple touch.

Might get us through this night. 

We reluctantly return to the small group, now joined by Vinny and Tseng, who took a seat next to Aerith and who nearly bristles when I walk past him to take my seat which Jessie still occupies. She smirks up at me holding up the lit blunt and I demand she remove herself from my chair. She’s loopy enough to comply while I take the weed from her. Tseng mumbles a strained comment about my rudeness, but I ignore him. I’m riding two highs. And a forcefield around my brain blocks any outsiders from disrupting me. 

The blunt makes its way through the group, while we chat about our different schools, the classes we take. Jessie and Aerith discuss being cheerleaders, and Aerith tells her about the garden club she started last year, which Jessie genuinely seems interested in. Tseng leans over to talk to Reno, who is smoking his cigarette with a dreamy expression on his face, about joining the Math team- which causes me to snort and earn a rough kick from the red-head that might be too telling. Vinny and Yuffie chat quietly next to each other about Korn, and I note the two look good together; but it’s hard to imagine him with anyone. And the comfortability between this random outskirt of friends seems to save tonight. And I buy that maybe there are better things to do at parties than just black out and make out with anyone that moves. 

Like getting to know the people around me that I take for granted. 

And just when I’m thinking we can make it through one night without the typical Staten Island drama, Tifa bursts out the door with such aggression that the screen finally cracks. And she’s b-lining for me, and I think she’s finally going to unload all the pent up anger she has harbored in her heart… but

I see the tears streaming down her face. Her pale cheeks flushed and her black hair a wreck; tattered and torn. She’s heaving and can barely get out my name. But I jump to my feet and grab her into my arms; and I hear the sobs that wreck her body. She’s trembling, gripping my arms that her nails dig through my jacket. 

“Cloud, please take me home. I want to go home,” she bawls into my chest. “Please, I’m sorry. I want to go home!”

I gently touch her head to pat down her hair and she flinches under my touch, and I hear her hiss. Looking up, I see Biggs standing in the doorway, eyes wide. 

And I’m red. 

I gently push her behind me. “The fuck did you do to her?” I rage in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine, but rips and tears at my throat. And if Biggs had been any closer, I would have taken him down with a fist. Everyone assumes I can’t fight. They pushed me because I didn’t hit a growth spurt until I was 15 and I looked leaner than the rest of my friends. 

And I’ve taken hits. And given back in return. 

And I’m certainly not afraid of Biggs.

But Tifa grabs my arm tightly and freezes my movements. “No, no, he didn’t do it.” She sputters between broken tears. And that’s when I realize he’s blocking the door. And there’s a female voice behind him, hurling screaming obscenities towards my friend, and I see her tiny fists reaching over his head trying to break through. 

And when  _ whore _ flies carelessly from the mysterious girl's mouth, Jessie flies from her seat. “Yo, tell me I’m about to fuck a bitch up right now?” She roars in a thick Staten Island girl accent that, in any other circumstance, would have been hilarious. But I have Tifa still sobbing into my arm and yanking me towards the exit. 

And Yuffie attempts to follow Jessie, but Vinny mutters a “that’s not happening” and throws the girl over his shoulder to remove her from the situation. 

Aerith appears next to us and gently places her hand on Tifa’s back; the red eyed girl looking up at her former friend, tears breaching through her contacts, as Aerith offers a comforting smile. “It’s okay, Tif,” Aerith says softly, “We’ll go, right?” She looks up at me, then back to Tifa. “I’ll come with you, okay? So you’re not alone…”

I expected Tifa to shake her head. They were friends when we dated, strained friends. But when the relationship ended, I thought the budding friendship between the two girls was another casualty. But Tifa nods her head quickly, accepting the offer. 

“Yo Tseng,” Reno stands close behind me, Tseng to his right, “Why don’t you go over there and make sure that chick doesn’t get hurt?” Even though Jessie now is trying to reach the girl by swinging her fist over Bigg’s head, shouting a sling of curses at him at the same time. 

“Excuse me,” Tseng protests. But Reno glares at him and the other boy sighs, “Who the fuck died and made you the leader?” Before stomping towards the fight. 

Reno mockingly mumbles a “Who died and made you the leader?” back,

Aerith runs her fingers up and down Tifa’s back, and brings her eyes to mine. “Cloud, can you walk us to Tifa’s?” Then she turns to Reno, “You come too? So Cloud doesn’t have to walk back by himself.”

Reno and I exchange a tense look- this girl is trying to play matchmaker while a fist fight erupts in the house and my best friend sobs into my arm- but Reno agrees to be my escort back. We head out through the side of the house. I throw a look back at the scene unfolding, and Jessie manages to use her small weight to push the fight back into the house. I hear a crash as we pass the window. Frantic yells and protests from the various inhabitants. 

And It all sounds too familiar. 

We get to the street, and I see some lights go on in the houses that surround Johnny’s, which is not a good sign. 

“Reno, do you think you might be good to drive?” I question with my arm wrapped tightly around Tifa, who sniffles quietly with her own arms around my waist as we walk down the street. Reno looks at his car, Aerith next to him. 

“I’m kinda baked, to be honest.” He turns to look at me and I do notice the bloodshot eyes around his blues. It’s a long walk, but not unmanageable. 

However. 

The front door to Johnny’s bursts open, and a red faced girl about Yuffie’s height, starts screaming at us. “Yeah fucking run, you little whore!”

This triggers Tifa, who pushes away from me. “I’ll fuck your face up, ugly bitch!”

The girl points at me from the stoop, “Yeah run your mouth behind your bitch ass boyfriend, dumb slut!”

Now. I’m about ready to let Tifa do whatever she needs to do to wreck this chick. But people are now peering behind their curtained windows. So when Tifa tries to charge her, I grab her tightly around her waist and try to carry her as she trashes in my arms like a feral cat. She’s screaming, “Yooooooooooooooo, I am going to fucking murder this bitch! Let me fucking go! _ ” _

And in that moment, Jessie charges from wherever the fuck she was, and jumps on this girls back sending them both to the concrete floor below. And I manage to see the brunette roll this girl onto the grass and start punching her in the face, before I hear Reno grab his car keys.

“ _ Alright _ , everyone, in the fucking car, right now,” he shouts.

I drag the kicking and screaming girl to Reno’s car and shove in the back with Aerith, who wants to grab Tifa to keep her from breaking out of the car but also doesn’t want to get clocked in the face. Reno and I jump in the front and instantly lock all the doors. Tifa looks wild, and I’ve seen her like this before. When a bunch of boys picked on me in middle school and she knocked one out with a punch to his jaw. Or when she was jumped at the age of fourteen in Miller Field by a bunch of girls who thought only they were allowed to dress goth, and thought incorrectly that they could take on the small pale girl. Learning quickly that Tifa knew how to inflict pain. And had a complete disregard for human life once challenged. 

We’re about to drive away when Rude slams his hands on the drivers window. Reno rolls the window down, his cousin’s eyes aflame. “You’re not leaving me here.”

“I have to drop this chick home before we all get arrested.”

“I have a name!” Tifa roars.

“Tifa, right. Whatever. Holy shit.” He snaps back. Looking back at his cousin. Rude doesn’t look sympathetic. 

“You’re not  _ fucking _ leaving me.”

Reeve appears next to Rude, “Reno, open the door. Please. Don’t leave me here, I'm scared.”

“Reeve, stop being a pussy! I’m coming right back. I just need to get them to her house.”

Now Cid pushes through the two boys; apparently losing his shirt during the party at some point. “What’s going on?” he looks in the back seat at the tear stroked Tifa. “Why are you crying?”

“Ask you fucking bitch ass pussy friend, Biggs,” she pushes herself nearly into the front seat waving her hands around dramatically, that I have to actually shove her back into her seat because she nearly whacks Reno and I. 

“Biggs did this?” Cid’s eyes flash with furious amusement. He looks back over to the party. “Yo Biggs! You bitch I’m fucking you up, bro!” and he disappears. 

“Rude,” Reno stifles a laugh, “go help Highwind.”

Rude throws his hands in the air, “The hell? Why would I help Highwind? Let me in this car, Reno. I swear to  _ God _ .”

“Oh my fuck, Rude, stop being a shithead! I’m coming back, you gigantic baby.” Reno shouts back, now frustrated and flustered. 

Rude narrows his dark eyes- and even though they are cousins, they don’t look alike at all, with the larger of the two standing outside the car his face contorted like he’s about to pull Reno out by his hair. But he grits his teeth instead. “You better fucking come back.” He grabs Reeve by the collar, the other boy scrambling to grab the car. “Come on, stop being a bitch, bro.”

We peel out of the spot. More lights ignite in the houses down the street as the fight spills onto the black tar road. And I see in the rearview Cid fading into the night, slapping his chest as a threat to Biggs- right as Barret tackles his friend and tries to drag him away. I softly direct Reno through the empty New Dorp, making sure to take dimly lit side streets since I can tell he’s uncomfortable driving with his high warping his sense of direction. We avoid the blinking illumination of Hylan Boulevard that would be too crowded even at this late hour. And if a neighbor called the cops, that’s where the flashing reds and blues would be coming from. I take him the admittedly long way to Midland. 

In the back, Aerith embraces Tifa, who quietly cries on her friend’s shoulder. I listen to the broken conversation in between directing the red-head. His own eyes completely focused between the road before him and the speed of his car. 

“I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” she tells Aerith, “he told me he wasn’t seeing anyone.”

I think of how I want to knock Bigg’s out. How I hope Cid got a few shots in before Barret stopped him. 

“Everyone already thinks I’m a slut,” she trembles, “now they are going to think I’m a homewrecking slut.”

“No one thinks you’re a slut,” Aerith tries to assure her, but I see the black hair sway back and forth in protest. 

“Yes they do. Everyone says it behind my back like I can’t hear. They call me a homie hopper.”

Reno snorts, and I resist the urge to punch him in his arm, “The fuck’s a homie hopper?”

“It’s someone who hooks up with multiple people in a group of friends,” Tifa’s voice stern. “All because I hooked up with Cloud, and Cid, and now Biggs-”

“When the hell did you hook up with Cid?” I notice I screech and Reno mumbles a  _ not important  _ through clenched teeth. But I’m apparently about to dig myself a hole to die in.

“You can’t even talk!” Her rage now directed at me, “You hook up with everyone, you tongue whore.”

Reno’s laugh is troubling as he breaks a little too hard at a red light. 

Tifa continues, pulling away from Aerith and staring daggers through the back of the seat. “Do you want to really know why I have almost no female friends? Because you hooked up with  _ all  _ of them and then blew them off like a fucking asshole. And they all blamed  _ me _ for it! Jessie’s the only one who stuck by me even though you treated her like shit.

“And no one calls you out. It’s fine when Cloud kisses three girls at one party, but if I hook up with two guys who are friends,  _ I’m the whore.  _ It’s not fair!”

An insect. One of those useless ones that has no reason for existing. Like a cicada. That wakes up, screams for a few weeks, fucks, then dies. That’s what I am. And I’m small sitting in that passenger seat. I bring my eyes to Reno who mouths  _ yikes _ at me. And through the mirror I see Tifa’s eyes wilted and destroyed, as one of her contacts has popped out. Aerith tries to avoid my gaze, looking down at her dress and pushing away imaginary dust. And Tifa is completely, a hundred percent, correct about the unfair social structure. And how I effortlessly, and without a second thought, corrupted any female friendship she attempted to form in the first three years of high school. 

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, but my voice sounds weak, useless, and rehearsed. With no meaning nor conviction. 

“That’s all you do,” Tifa looks out the window, “You mess up and think you can just say sorry and everything will be okay.”

The ride descends into tense silence. Aerith takes over as navigator to get us there quicker, as I sit with my hands on my lap. Drilling holes into my fingers as if that would do anything to help. And I’m not even sure how to fix this situation. 

But, when we pull up in front of Tifa’s house, and she tries to jump out, I make an attempt. 

“Do you want me to stay with you?” I ask, sincerely, turning around so I can look at her. She has her hand on the handle, curving her lips inward to try to stop some tears that linger in her broken eyes. 

“Aerith, you’ll stay right?” she asks as if my question never reached her ears. And the brunette nods and responds with a quiet yes. Tifa, never bringing herself to look at me. “Dave will kill me if he finds you in the house again after hours. So...no.” 

She exits the car, the cool breeze that follows freezes my veins. Aerith joins her, thanking Reno for the ride and closing the door behind them. We watch the girls, the green-eyed one with her arm over Tifa’s shoulders, as they walk through the side door and disappear into the darkness. 

What a night.

I didn’t even drink and I still managed to cause problems. That’s some super power. 

I slouch in the passenger seat with a strained huff. 

“Well,” Reno starts, his voice already dripping with sarcasm, “That was fun.” I only offer a shrug in response so he continues. “Better than television, gotta say. Does this happen often?”

I throw him glare that does nothing to the smirk on his face. “Yes,” I mumble, looking out the window.

He sighs. I feel his hand glide over to mine and he steals it from my lap, bringing it onto the middle console. “It’ll be okay, pretty boy.” He sounds unsure, but I welcome his attempt to warm the ice that clings to my chest. 

Because I’m not sure if it will be okay this time. 

“Let’s get the guys,” he says, “before Rude loses his mind. And then...we’ll go back to your place?” He rubs his thumb across my knuckle which tugs at my lips. 

“You still want to hang out after hearing all the shit I did?” I ask solemnly with my eyes resting at our hands. 

“Before my time, besides,” he pauses and I look at him- his face twisted like he may relate a little too much, “Not like I haven’t done some shit.”

I squeeze his hand to let him know that I would never judge him for his past. Like he wouldn’t mine. And maybe that’s one good thing that came from tonight. 

We drive back to the house, hands clasped together until we see the silhouettes of a group of boys heading towards crowded New Dorp Lane. And we let go, for the moment, and return to our original roles. Placing the masks back on. And try to pretend that our presence in each other’s life is just a happy mistake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I wasn't going to actually post this chapter (because lack of Cloud and Reno being googly eyed for each other), but since this is a story about Staten island, I had to add some Island spice. This is actually not that bad of a fight. But literally 9/10 times, a party descends into a fight. Also, I wanted to high light some of issues surrounding girls. Boy howdy, I was Tifa. Still am probably. Bet, I have some beta males still running around calling me a homie hopper 'cause they haven't aged past 21. 
> 
> Also, I'm loving how Reeve is developing into a little derp. I kinda want to do a spin off with Reeve and Tseng adventures in High School. They are two responsible people on an Island of maniacs, just trying to get girls and stay (mostly) sober. 
> 
> BIG THANKS TO EVERYONE who leaves comments and kudos. I love reading them and responding.   
> I hope you enjoy this early update before the Holiday Weekend. And I hope everyone gets to do a little something. Hopefully no parties erupt into fist fights (if anyone is partying, I mean, there's still a pandemic, but as I found out two weeks ago when I visited, a fight can happen with 8 people haha).


	17. Thanksgiving Day Massacre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW:  
> Suicide Mention  
> Self-harm mention/implication   
> Domestic fight  
> Parent death   
> Nonchalant discussion on death
> 
> So, there is a lot going on in this chapter and I hope I got all the potential TW. I think the worse of it is around the line break between where Cloud walks back inside (you'll know when) and when he's sitting waiting for someone to pick him up. If that makes ANY sense.

My parents are fighting again. 

And I wonder how my mother doesn’t lose her voice with the volume of screaming she unleashes upon my father. The duration. Impressive. 

She’s supposed to be making apple pie to bring to her parent’s in New Jersey- where we will no doubt be subjected to passive aggressive remarks from her two sisters and oma’s stone face glares from her spot at the table. While the men gather in the living room watching football and have a pissing contest between who makes the most money, and whose children are most successful. My father’s crushing silence during those conversations are louder than my uncles’ judgemental words in my direction. 

And I am not looking forward to the four hour drive in Thanksgiving traffic to surround myself around people I loath. All of them are the more vile examples of elitism. Cecelia, the oldest of the sisters, with her husband Maxwell, have been trying to get their grimey hands on my opa’s hotel empire for decades. But the old man refuses to retire. And refuses to leave the hotel in the hands of any woman, due to the archaic notion that women can’t run a successful business. And flat out refuses to leave the business in any of the husbands’ names because he hates every single one of them. So Cecelia and Max put on an elaborate show at every single family gathering, showcases their own string of moderately or unsuccessful businesses as evidence of their competence to handle the estate. They make dramatic efforts to stay close to the elder Engel’s, brag about how good care they take of them. All while their vacant zombie eyes burn only for their money.

Then there’s the middle child, Cynthia and whatever husband she’s married to this time. Three kids. Three different men.A hypochondriac. Every day is a new cancer that infects her body. Or new mysterious disease that will cripple her. She needs the estate to pay for her divorces and medical appointments, and for her three kids under the age of 5 to go to elaborate daycares and preschools. I’m not even sure if she has a real job, or if the bank she makes on child support keeps her afloat. Last time I saw them, Easter I think, she was all about spirituality. Being one with the earth. No meat. No chemicals. No artificial. Her husband some hippy fuck from Montana who thinks upstate New York is too “urban” for him. 

My mom is the youngest of the Engel sisters. And according to them, the most unsuccessful. The loser of the group. Pregnant out of wedlock at twenty-two. Had a shotgun wedding in order to prevent the shame when the tabloids got pictures of her at a clinic. And it doesn’t matter that my dad has his M.B.A and a successful C.F.O. What matters is that Claudia obviously got pregnant first, to purposely have the first and only boy in the family, so she could inherit the house in Todt Hill and for her son to be in line to inherit the six hundred or so hotels across three continents. 

And because of that elephant in the room, all my mother’s actions are scrutinized. All her trips to rehab are seen as failures instead of progression. Her relapses as expectations. Her attempts to better herself through going back to college, to finish what she gave up for me, as pointless and pandering.  _ You’ll just fail again _ .  _ What’s the point? _

Every holiday the same song and dance. Sometimes, we skip the fight, and we drive the four hours hopeful. Until the moment a glass of wine my mother shouldn’t have is forced into her hands, and it’s filled with all the negative words her sister’s hold just for her, and by the time dinner is served, Claudia is slinging that glass across the room-

And it’s  _ well, there you go. _ .

A crash comes from the kitchen- speaking of which, an unsuspecting plate or vase has met its untimely end. I swallow the lump in my throat that forms like a tumor everytime they start their performance. My mother’s voice is the only one penetrating the room, this time. My father more even and cool during these fights

Except for the obvious one…

I grab my ipod and plug the headphones into my ears, and attempt to drown their argument with Slayer’s  _ Raining Blood _ . I lay on my bed, close my eyes and hope for a more pleasant daydream fueled by one of metal’s big four. And I remember the first time I heard this song. In my dad's car when I was eight. And it was raining, hard, but my father decided we needed a break from my mother for a few hours- though I didn’t understand why at the time. And we drove the length of the Staten Island Expressway listening to his favorite tunes for what seemed like an entirety. And he explained every song, from every band, and their history and where he heard them for the first time. He trusted me to handle the cassette tapes. And I would gently take them in my hands like they were little birds, and put them in the tape deck and hit play. 

And at least once a week we did this. Until we didn’t. And I am not entirely sure when it stopped or why. 

And I wonder why my parents feel so far away from me; how we live in the same house, but in different worlds. And I’ve looked for different ways to reach them. But it’s like screaming into a dome bubble; my voice muffled.

And the only time they heard me calling was the time I tried to be silent. 

Something shakes the house and my eyes fly open. I rip the headphones out of my ear in time to hear my mother screeching like she’s being murdered- about how she’s going to divorce him, he’s an animal, she’ll take everything.

_ And you’ll never see your son again. _

He must have pushed her. My stomach starts to turn. That’s happened before when she charged him with a knife during the Thanksgiving meltdown of 2001. I feel my chest lock up. The sweat beads along my forehead and I lift my left hand to see it tremble slightly. I clench it into a fist. I yell at my brain to turn off whatever ultraviolet light it has on that melts the logic that I’ve tried to hammer into it. 

Now my dad’s voice starts to rattle the walls. But he sounds underwater and that’s probably the same mind, that’s currently unleashing thoughts like tiny goblins that bury their claws into me, trying to build a flimsy barrier. 

I want to throw up. 

I push the feeling down.

My eyes well up and I tell myself

How boys aren’t supposed to cry-

And God, how fucking pathetic are you? It’s just a fight between two people who are all wrong for each other.

And probably shouldn’t have bothered having you.

I take a sharp breath that burns my throat. 

Nausea returning with vengeance.

And I can’t remember all the things my therapist told me to do when I started feeling like this, because everything suddenly feels like static. And the room pixelated. And My mind yelling at me to stop being such a-

An option whispers against my ear like a friend offering a helpful hand. 

But I say fuck that friend.

I grab my phone with my trembling hand and hit Reno’s contact. It takes two rings before he answers. 

“Hold on one sec,” he whispers. And I remember it’s a holiday, and he’s surrounded by his entire family apparently- and now I feel like a burden. But I listen intently as he navigates through the house, dodging questions from disembodied voices with dismissive yet effective answers. I hear the door open and shut. “Yo.”

“H-hey,” I hate that my voice shatters when I try to speak. And I can’t see his face, but I hear the tone.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing...can’t I just call you whenever?”

“Yeah, butcha don’t.”

I pause. 

“I just wanted to say hi.”

“Cloud.” He’s stern. And feel his voice overpower the others that whisper vile things. 

“My parents are fighting.” Is all I have to say.

“You want to have a smoke?”

“I don’t have any cigarettes-”

“I didn’t ask you if you had cigarettes, I asked if you wanted to smoke.”

I pause again. “I don’t want to be-”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.” he hangs up abruptly. And I have so many concerns- how will he sneak out without anyone noticing him? What if they do? What will they ask? And those questions block some of the other questions that need to be buried for now. 

I gather the strength to grab a black hoody and sneak downstairs- worried that every creak of the wooden stairs would alert my parents. But mom and dad are still going at it in the kitchen. Their voices now hushed screams through clenched teeth as if suddenly concerned their argument could reach my ears. I leave through the front door to be more inconspicuous and walk through the side entrance. The brisk wind is a welcomed relief from the suffocating house. The sun bright in the cloudless sky and the smell of fall wafts through the air. 

Even with the comfort of the outdoors, I can feel the fight vibrating through the walls, threatening to break the clam. I lean against the wall; the coldness of the brick breaking through the thin fabric of my hoodie and ratty Slayer 1987 tour t-shirt. I almost feel relief. But my chest is still stiff with all the words I’ve wanted to scream. I’m drowning in this sensation of displacement? Abandonment? 

Or maybe it’s the knowledge of history repeating itself. The veins in my wrist seem to pull as if threatening to rip open. And I’m terrified at how I don’t try to fix that feeling. 

Reno emerges from the side gate and I exhale as if holding my breath. The late morning sun illuminates his hair like wild flames. He’s wearing simple blue jeans and an Armani zip up fall jacket. And It still confuses me how handsome he looks without an ounce of effort. He flashes me a lopsided smile, but his eyes shimmer with pitiful sadness when he looks at me. 

“Hey there, pretty boy.” 

I scoff as if the nickname doesn’t make my stomach flip every time. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes and hands me one before grabbing his own. And while I definitely don’t want to take the harshness of reds, beggars can’t be choosers. He leans his shoulder against the wall next to me- far enough that no one would question, but close enough that he can reach and touch me. Which he doesn’t.

“So they’re really going at it huh?” He asks with a pinch of sympathy. 

“Yeah,” I nod, “they do this alot, especially around the holidays.”

“Shit’s stressful,” he shrugs, “I’m sure it’ll be okay soon.”

I don’t answer, but I don’t agree. The fighting will pause, but it will never be okay, because our family hasn’t been okay for years. Even before my accident. 

I don’t register how sad I must look until his finger aggressively starts poking my head. And I shift my eyes towards him, ready to snap as I wave him away, but a warm inviting smile crosses his face.

“Hey, don’t do that,” he says with commanding softness that I feel parts of my guard fall away. “Don’t shut down. You don’t have to hide from me.” 

A smile tugs at my own lips. “I’m not,” I argue, “I just don’t know how to talk about my parents fighting.”

“That’s fair,” his voice shudders with sad understanding, and he looks at the clear blue sky that in many ways mimics his eyes. Taking a long drag, he continues through a black cloud, “What started the fight?”

I shrug, “Not clue. I missed the beginning. I came out of the shower and she was already calling him an asshole.”

“Hmmm,” he swoons with an exaggerated tone, “the shower, huh?”

My cheeks burn, “That’s what you took from that sentence?”

He smirks against his cigarette without looking at me, “Can you blame me? Have you seen yourself?”

I’m sure I’m the color of a tomato. And I pull my eyes from him because I’m dangerously close to breaking one of our rules-no affection outdoors. Even though he takes his hand and links our fingers, rubbing his thumb against my skin. And I swear I feel us move closer as if pulled by a string. 

“Don’t take it personal,” he says, and he’s close enough that I feel his breath against my neck when he slightly turns his head. And I almost forget what we were originally talking about. “Your parents have their own bullshit, separate from you- you’re just collateral in their war.”

“How profound,” I take a long inhale that tears at my lungs. “Ever consider a career in therapy?”

“Ha!” A bitter laugh that tastes like the poison that eats at his throat, “No way. I have my own shit. And I suck at helping anyone.”

“You’re doing a good job right now.” And it’s true. Since he appeared next to me against the wall of my house, I haven’t felt the stinging pain of self destruction that charges at my chest. And my stomach that threatened to vomit up my regrets has settled. And breathing feels easier even as I suffocate myself with chemicals. As usual, his presence calms the sounds in my brain that chant and rattle until I give in to their demands. 

“Oh?” he takes a dangerous step closer. 

“Yeah but,” I shift against the house so I can look at him. His eyes engulfed in my gaze. “I just wanted to see you, so the bar is set pretty low.”

He tugs me closer. And all concepts of rules evaporate when his lips press against mine.

Not the wild desperate kiss. 

It flutters like butterfly wings. For a second I’m drowning in something other than self-hatred. And nothing else matters for the few fleeting moments we are connected. 

I despise when he pulls away. Content that I could stay that way forever. But my smile against his. 

And once again, those words that are too soon to utter vibrate around my throat. 

But I know I feel it. 

Our foreheads rest on each others, our cigarettes falling to their deaths, half smoked. He cautiously brings his hand to run his fingers through my short hair- and I have to close my eyes because this feels like a dream. The hot sun on our backs. The chilled wind that caresses our skin. My arms around his waist to pull him closer; that our lips collide again-

With more desperate passion than before.

And I open my mouth so he can take control- because I like when he takes over. I don’t have to think, just follow and obey. 

And there’s a certain freedom in that. 

And from what I feel, he enjoys it too,

So I let him press me against the wall of my house- where I forget for a second the parents hurling insults- and I shiver when his fingers run down my face- and he moans something between our lips,  _ you’re so pretty _ . And maybe I would have been insulted, but those words never sounded so intoxicating before. Like perfectly aged scotch

And then his phone rings. He pulls away only slightly, arm resting on my shoulder as he whispers  _ what the fuck _ to the cloudless sky. Reno grabs the offending technology and flips the phone open:

“What?” he snaps. Rude’s on the other line. I hear him report that questions have erupted over Reno’s disappearance. The red-head rolls his blue eyes that look almost translucent in the fall sun. “Alright alright, cuz, I’m coming back. Just say I took a walk or something? I don’t know, fuck, the one time they notice I’m gone.” Rude’s voice grows louder, something about his mother. “Well tell her to die mad about it.” And he flips his phone shut so hard, I thought he actually broke it.

He bites his tender lips as he shoves a hand in his pocket. I kiss the side of his mouth and rub his back that has turned rigid. “I’m sorry,” I whisper softly.

“Don’t,” he sighs, “You’re probably the only good thing about today.”

I know I have to let him go. And the stiff look in his eyes that drift to my chest tells me he’s not ready to go back to whatever situation waits for him. As much as I want to press him for information, I know once the questions start, he’ll end it and leave. Even if it’s just a few extra seconds. I want them like a junkie.

Then he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Centipedes in vaginas.”

I immediately drop my arms, “What in the the  _ actual _ fuck, Reno!?”

“What?” he opens his eyes and looks at me completely stern. “You trying to walk inside with a boner? Because I’m not trying to walk around the block with one.”

“But why  _ that _ image?”

He shrugs, “Two things that disgust me. Pretty killer combo.”

“Fuck, you’re so weird.” I shake my head, even though it works.

“You good, by the way?” he runs his hand against my face so I’m forced to look into his eyes, as if looking for a lie I’m going to spill.

“I’ll live,” I respond. And he frowns. 

“You better,” he demands, “I’m calling you later.”

And I hate the seriousness in his tone. And I hate that he needs to worry about me at all. When it feels so one-sided, and I can’t express that I worry about him everytime he walks into his house, because he won’t _ tell  _ me anything. But I know he dreads the walk, or fence hop, back to his yard. And I know when the phone rings he tenses. I also know sometimes when he’s under me on the couch and my hand travels a little too down he grabs my wrist and clenches. We stop. But we don’t talk about it, any of it. The moment I press him, it’s like the light behind his eyes turns off. 

“Okay,” I murmur like a dumbass. He seems satisfied and starts to back up to walk away. My stomach lurches and I grab him by the wrist to stop him. “Uh, wait.” He tilts his head to the side, and fuck he looks so handsome when he does that, but I realize I need a reason to keep him from leaving. “So...My friends and I usually go to the mall tomorrow for Black Friday. You think you’d want to happen to run into us?”

“What do you guys do?”

“Just walk around-”

“Hang out in front of the Hot Topic?” He snickers. 

“Actually, yeah, that’s exactly what we do…we usually get there around 6:30am.”

He ponders for a moment, “I think I can convince Rude he wants to go. Bet Tifa will be there?” I nod, even though she and I haven’t exactly been on the best of terms lately but it’s tradition, and Cid and Barret already confirmed. “Aight, I can make that work.”

I release him and our arms drop to our sides. One we strangle one more second looking into each other and then he kisses me goodbye. He leaves and I hate how sad I feel. 

* * *

I walk in through the side entrance, thinking the silence that engulfs the house is a good sign. Until I hear my dad’s frantic calling for me and my stomach drops. I ascend the stairs slowly, dreading the inevitable, when the basement door swings open and he’s bearing down on me with blue-green eyes wide with fear. And I barely have a chance to ask him whats wrong:

“I have to take your mother to the hospital.”

“What-”

“She cut herself.”

I hear her screaming and crying somewhere in the house and my heart starts slamming on my chest like it’s trying to literally escape. 

“Can you call one of your friends and go to their place until we get back?”

His voice isn’t calm. I want to tell him this is all wrong. That he needs to try pretending he has control. 

“Dad, what’s going on?”

“Just, I need to go help your mother. Call Cid or Tifa. and Just let me know where you end up.” And then he vanishes from the doorway, leaving it open so I can hear his desperate pleas to my mother. Her sobbing. Their disturbed footsteps as they run out of the house. The door flying open, slammed shut. 

And I stand there on the steps for a few minutes. Shaking my head. I throw my arms in the air at no one. These people are so fucking  _ dumb _ . I stomp up the stairs, because now I have to see the scene. I  _ have _ to. And the logical side of my brain is screaming at me to stop. While the one fueled by pure rage pushes me. And I’m not sure which track to follow. Until I enter the kitchen and immediately regret my actions.

Because now I’m trapped in a memory. 

And I hold my breath like I’m being dragged underwater and my vision blurs, which has to be another defense response. Because the scarlet red I see blends into the stark white kitchen tile like a painting. 

I try not to cry because, again, because boys don’t cry. And I can’t even call Reno again because his family is already suspicious. 

And the sick I feel is mixing with the absolute, pure, anger towards my parents. That they would be so stupid to let their fight get this bad- again- and leave the aftermath so I can see it. And I let the anger grip me, because why should  _ I _ be upset with myself. When these two irresponsible humans continue to make mistakes that destroy their only child. Why did they even bother having me-

_ We would be done if not for the kid- _

My fist hits the picture that hangs directly next to the kitchen. Shattering glass pierces through the empty house like a knife. I pull my hand from my destruction. The whole image falls to the ground- and it’s a family portrait of the three of us when I was three years old, with a drooly smile and big blue-green eyes. And My mother held me tightly with this wide, toothy grin like she was the happiest person in the world. My dad standing over her, hands on her shoulders, looking 90s as ever with his mustache. Please look in his eyes. Proud. 

And the tears sting worse than the cuts. I look at my clenched fist, at the blood already pooling at the knuckles around small broken glass. And I think about how Reno’s fists almost always look the same. Like he’s going around punching his family portraits instead of punching his mother or father. 

And I wonder if he feels the same sick relief when the sharp edges crack his skin.

And then I throw up. 

* * *

I wait outside. 

I don’t fix either mess.

My dad can pick up the pieces. I won’t shoulder that responsibility. 

After I cleaned myself up, I half-assed bandaged my hand, packed an overnight bag because it seems like one of those days and waited for Vinny’s aunt to pick me up.

He was the only one I could think of calling on a Holiday. Barret goes to one of his Aunt’s houses, where literally the entire family congregates. Cid’s probably at his uncles and three hours away from being in a fist fight. Seph’s parents work in a hospital so they get every other Holiday off- this year was Thanksgiving so they went away for the long weekend. And even if he were around, I probably would have used him as a last resort. Our friendship hit a strained point. He got his car back and still picks me up to go to school, but usually abandons me as soon as we enter the building and disappears after school (which meant more time with Reno who drives me home, so no complaints there). He also hasn’t been inviting me to any of the parties he goes to now. And there’s this bitter part of me that’s pissed. But now I’m no longer shamed into selling my medicine- which has  _ oddly _ gone missing. And everytime I bring up hanging out he brushes me off with false promises. And I wonder really, what happened?

Tifa would have been a sure thing. Her family hosts. But, like Seph, we’ve been tense since Johnny’s party. I keep calling her to apologize. Ask her what I need to do to show her I’m really trying. And she just says she doesn’t care. She forgave me. She’s  _ fine _ . But she’s not. She doesn’t hang out. Instead, and she thinks we don’t know, she hangs out with Biggs. Which completely sets Cid and I aflamed. That she would forgive that piece of shit that got her jumped at a party. And that she would be mad at Cid for clocking him in the jaw, and me for calling him a pussy to his face the last time he had the misfortune of running into us. Aerith tells me I need to go easy. That Bigg’s had broken up with the girl and she was  _ crazy _ . But that’s the food Biggs told them, and I don’t trust guys who shit on their ex’s. Because I’m a guy who shat on my ex to protect myself. 

I guess that makes me as bad as him. 

I try to force a smile when Vinny’s aunt Deb pulls up in front of my house in her 1996 Honda, with a cigarette in her bony fingers. She offers me one as soon as I get it, comments that I look like shit, and what happened to my hand? I tell her that my mom cut herself baking apple pie and that this is an old injury. She buys it and I get to smoke Camel’s with her on the drive to Vin’s while we listen to the classic rock station. Her wiry orange hair stiff as the wind whips through the car. And I think about how much hairspray she must use to achieve that look,

Because I need to wonder about mundane things right now. 

Vinny doesn’t have any other family and sometimes I envy that about him, and I’ve said it once when I was drunk and I thought he was going to punch me in the face. And he told me, instead, that seeing all the shit our friends go through sometimes, he feels lucky he has no parents. He’s in his usual spot in his room, playing the new  _ Halo _ and grunts when I walk through the door. I don’t even have  _ Halo 2.  _ My parents told me I’d get it for Christmas. My Vinny’s aunt pawned off some of her jewelry to get him the game the day it was released. And I know it’s because she’s worried that he’s depressed because, you know, the whole no parent’s thing. But she guides him out of guilt. Kid has no rules. Or boundaries. His house a revolving door. I’m surprised Wedge, whose parents all but abandoned him, isn’t eating an entire bag of chips on the floor right now. 

We don’t speak. Which is why I like Vinny. Cid would want to interrogate the hand. Barret would just  _ know _ what I did and try to get a parent involved. Tifa would cry and try to get me to talk about my problems. Seph would make fun of me. All of them, the worst outcomes I can think of. Vinny, however, darts his eyes from the game, to my hand, and then back to the game. And after he finishes a chapter, he hands me a controller. 

“Multiplayer?”

“Why so you can kick my ass?” I mutter, “You’ve been playing this nonstop, I bet you have all the spawn points memorized.”

“So?” he responds blankly, “If you want you can play the campaign and I’ll watch.”

I take him up on that offer. Vinny’s good like that. He likes watching other people play games and he doesn’t criticize- except the girls. He forces them to play _Resident_ _Evil_ in the dark, and smiles a sick yellow tooth smile when they scream and beg him to turn on the lights. I play in silence. The only sounds from the game. And even though my right hand stings a bit when I have to press the trigger button to shoot, I finally feel as relaxed as I did when Reno had me against the wall. 

Thanksgiving this year consists of pasta with meat sauce because no one likes Turkey. The sauce store bought Ragu and I hate how being around Tifa made me a snob when it comes to sauce. The food is edible. Simple. His aunt is no chef, but she makes the kind of food you want to eat at 3am drunk or high. So I’m used to it by now even stone sober. His grandmother joins us, who we affectionately call the “Deadite” because she looks like one of the monsters from  _ Evil Dead _ . And she calls me “boy” every time she needs my attention because after two years she doesn’t remember my name. His Aunt and grandmother fight at some point. But it’s hilarious and not upsetting when they do this. 

“Why won’t the boy eat,” his grandmother shouts at Aunt Deb. 

“Maybe he’s not hungry,” Deb shouts back, “Leave him alone.”

“The boy doesn’t like the food, he can leave.”

Vinny says out loud, “I can’t wait till she dies.”

And I know deep down he doesn’t mean that. But he likes to say things like that to see how we react. His Aunt slaps him upside his head. And his grandmother doesn’t even realize what he said. I force myself to eat a few bites. It tastes fine, but I’m just not hungry. 

I help his aunt clean up the kitchen, because I guess my mother did raise me with manners, and she gives me two cigarettes for the trouble. I save them even though I would love an after meal smoke. But I figure one for the inevitable phone call from my dad. And one to smoke when Reno calls back. And that’s what I’m living for right now, as I kill alien hordes, that check in phone call.

My dad’s call comes first. 

I crawl out of Vinny’s bedroom window to take the call, so I don’t have to pass by his grandmother again going through the front. I sit under the window, one Camel in my finger to light up as soon as I hang up with him. 

I think about not answering. But I know it’ll cause more problems.

“Hey, son,” he says like it’s a rehearsed line, something he’s supposed to say, “Where are you?

“Vinny’s.” 

“Oh, okay.” Sounds like he would rather I be with Cid or Tifa, “Thank his parents for me.” I roll my eyes, but I don’t correct him. “So, yeah, mom’s good. They stitched her up and she’ll be fine. She...just needs to stay at the hospital overnight.

I knit my eyebrows together, “Why?”

“Just to...make sure the cut doesn’t get infected,” he sounds unsure.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I counter tensely. 

“Look, she just has to, okay? She’s fine, she just needs to rest.”

“Why won’t you tell me the truth?”

“Jesus, Cloud, please. I’ve had a long day, okay?”

I feel the rage again. “There’s a mess in the house.”

He sighs, “I know.”

“You left a mess.”

“I know…”

“You left a mess and I saw it.”

“...I know.”

I hate him more every time he says it. Then he continues, “Do you think you can sleep over at...uh. Vinny’s?”   
  


“Way ahead of you.”

Pause. I clench the phone in my hand. 

“I’ll pick you up from there tomorrow just send me -”

“No.” I respond curtly, “We’re going to the mall tomorrow.”

“Not tomorrow, Cloud, we’re going to your aunts house.”

“Which aunt?” 

“Aunt Sofie,” his sister and the rage bubbles over. Because if the Engel’s are terrible, the Strife’s are worse. 

“No.”

“Excuse me?” His voice edges.

“I said no. I’m not going. I have plans with my friends.”

“This is not up for negotiating, Cloud.”

“I’m not going. I’m not going to your sister’s house. Or your brother’s. I’m going to the mall with my friends.”

“Cloud Asher Strife, who do you think you’re speaking to?” 

I don’t remember the last time he used my full name. And I had so many comebacks for that one. Bastian Adrian Strife, the guy who left his son in a kitchen covered with his mother’s blood. I’m talking to a coward. 

Instead I mutter “whatever” into the phone and hang up. 

He doesn’t call me back. 

I crawl back into Vinny’s room. And I don’t register how I must look when I flopped on the bed and grab the controller to continue the game. But I feel something wet in my eyes that makes the screen brighter. And Vinny stares at me with those eyes that look almost red and unnatural. 

“Is your mom okay?”

And I hate that he broke that unsaid rule and asked. “It’s whatever.” I grind my teeth as I die at the hands of the Elite. 

He pauses for a minute. “At least she isn’t splattered all over the highway.”

I close my eyes tightly which releases a single tear- and I’m so mad at myself. “Bro, what the fuck man?”

“What? Too soon?” he smirks with a sardonic glint in his eyes. 

“Just, that’s dark...doesn’t it bother you?” 

“No.” he responds with such a lack of emotion I wonder if it actually does bother him. “It’s not my problem. It’s not my problem that she left me home alone when I was eight. It’s not my problem she took too many drugs. It’s not my problem she walked onto a highway. And it’s not my problem she tried to hug a truck. Her choices are not my problem. So why would I care?”

It is such a morbid way of looking at his situation. But maybe he had a point. My parent’s choices shouldn’t be my problem. Why do I let it weigh so heavily in my head that I consider distressing alternatives to silence them? And I wonder how Vinny is able to be so...blank about his situation. Is it an act? Or does he really not care? And I envy that maybe his brain is ironically, not as broken as mine. 

“Feel better?” he looks at the blue screen where my character remains still. 

“Oddly, yes.” 

“Then I did my job.”

* * *

I’m watching Vinny play  _ Resident Evil 2 _ in the dark when my phone lights up. I scramble out the window to take the call. Nearly missing it because I got my leg caught on something on my way out. 

“Yo,” I manage to get out through rapid breaths. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Reno answers, and I can hear him through the phone taking a drag of his Reds.

“Nothing, just trying to get someplace private,” I pull one of the Camels Vin’s aunt gave me and light up. The smoke adding an extra layer of relief along with Reno’s low voice.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I sigh, “My mom’s in the hospital. She’s okay. Just needs to stay there for the night...I’m at Vinny’s house.”

“Shit...are you okay?”

“I told you, I’ll live.”

He pauses, and it’s like he’s standing next to me because I can just feel the gears turning in his head. “Do you want me to come by?”

I smile at the thought. “Tempting, but,” he already got in trouble leaving the first time, and I’d rather not have to explain to Vinny why Reno from school is swinging by, “It’s probably better if you don’t....”

“Yeah…” A slight pause; just our breathing which does something to my knees. And how I wish he was next to me, his breath on my neck, instead on the other side of the island. “Oh, I told Rude about the mall. He’s down.”

“Good.” And I wonder if he’s smiling as much as me. 

We talk about our respective holidays. He tells me a bunch of extended family on his mom’s side came up from Tennessee and just acted all high and mighty the whole time. They slung passive aggressive comments towards Rude’s mother because she’s mixed, which caused the other Sinclair’s to storm out of the house right before desert. I tell him about Vinny’s grandmother. And his laugh echoes through the phone when I tell him our nickname for her. And it feels so nice to listen to him. I can hear him talk all day and would be better than any song I have on my ipod. 

But I also wonder if it’s healthy, to be so addicted to the sound of someone’s voice. 

“Fuck,” he pulls away from the phone and I hear him shouting at a mysterious person. And I note the way his tone changes. Like a molotov cocktail. Gasoline and fire. Ready to explode. But not quite ready. He returns, “I’ve been summoned by the birthgiver.”

“You sound thrilled,” I rest my head against the paneling of Vin’s house, staring at the muted night sky and wonder if we are looking at the same moon right now. And how that makes him feel closer to me. 

“They probably want me to entertain my little cousins so they can drink or something,” he grumbles.

“I’d pay to see that.”

“I’m going to teach them how to curse and play poker.”

“Great influence.”

“You know it, baby.” My heart flutters, and I yell at myself for being that guy again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, k? I laaaaaa….like you.”

I arch and eyebrow as he scolds himself with confused  _ what in the actual fuck? _ . 

“What did you say?” I ask.

“What?

“You said something.”

“I like you,” he makes a  _ psh _ noise, “That’s all.”

“You like me?”

“Yeah, you’re my best friend. So I like you.”

“Right,” I smirk, “I’m just your ‘best friend’.”

“Yeah, I mean. More but. Whatever, yo.” His voice tenses and I decide to let him off the hook. 

“Alrighty then. I laaaaaaa like you too.”

Felt weird coming from my mouth. Not quite there, but close. And his pause more pensive than frightened. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah…”

He sighs, “Centipedes in vaginas.”

“ _ That _ gave you a boner?” I laugh. 

“Fuck you,” he snaps, “I’m getting off the phone with you now. I’ll see you tomorrow- I’ll grab you a pack of cigarettes so you don’t smoke all mine, you addict.”

“Thanks,  _ honey. _ ”

“Fuck off.” He hangs up. 

I spend a few minutes outside, on the cold grass underneath Vinny’s window where the sounds of shotguns and zombie brains exploding echo, and my face actually hurts from smiling. But I wonder how long we can keep this up. If we’re getting too comfortable into a false sense of security. Testing the dark waters where unknown enemies lurk. But if he wants to break a few of his own rules then maybe...I might be okay with that…

I crawl back into Vinny’s room. I have texts from Cid and Barret about tomorrow- meeting us at Vin’s and his aunt driving us. Apparently Tifa will get a ride with her mom who partakes in the deals. I flop on the bed, feeling elated. 

Vinny looks at me for a moment, “Who was that?”

I tense up, “No one.”

“Hm,” he nods, “Didn’t sound like no one.”

I shrug, “Drop it.”

He smirks. Then with complete sincerity. “That red-headed friend of yours is pretty cool. You should invite him out more often.”

I glare at him from my side of the bed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

And maybe just because it was Vinny, and not anyone else, I didn’t feel the need to murder him in his sleep and bury him outside his yard. Because Vinny, who doesn’t usually like to talk, doesn’t usually start rumors either. But maybe this is a sign…

And not a good one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vinny is 100 percent based on my best friend, so his back story is the same as my friends. I asked permission before posting but "B" was like "I don't care. Do whatever you want. Write about my dead mom and crazy aunt." So I did. This one's for you B~rad.   
> Other than that, this was a super difficult chapter for me to write actually. I think I accidentally dug up some memories from my child hood I forgot about. My parents used to fight a lot, not sure if this bad, but its 100 percent possible. But yeah, I got really upset while writing this.
> 
> BUT, I hope you all enjoy reading this even if it's a bit on the more...sad side? I guess that's the word. And thank you once again for your comments! And don't ever apologize for writing long comments because they give me life. And if you draw me fanart I will love you forever and show my friends and family!


	18. What He Did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get some insight on Reno's past.  
> Cloud struggles to find the words to comfort his boyfriend.  
> And there's a random game of Never Have I Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW:  
> Some implied sexual trauma   
> Some sexual themes.  
> Underage drinking
> 
> Note: "Hooked up" in Staten Island, at least back in 2004, is another way of saying made out or kissing with tongue. I realize that I didn't make this clear (And thank you Rod66 for bringing this to my attention!!)

**Chapter Eighteen: What He Did**

I’m being honest when I say, I never felt this way about anyone. Not Zack, whose name I have buried in the back of my mind for so long he feels like a phantom. Or dream. Maybe even a nightmare.

No. Zack wasn’t entirely bad. He was confused in much the same way I was; but he was older. I thought wiser. And I willfully offered him trust with my body that he didn’t know how to handle. So he cracked it, in his fist. And it took Reno to repair that trust. 

I don’t compare the two. It’s not fair to either. Minus their sense of fashion and preferred sport, Reno and Zack are two completely different souls. And I also try to limit how much I think about Zack. But his face has popped up in flashes when certain conversations arise between the red-head and I. And I remember the smell first. The mysterious whiff of summer air. Sun block. The musky stench of lake water. His black hair over pale blue eyes (I have a type) beading with water. 

But that’s all. Then. Black. Like I drank all the whiskey in the cabinet and don’t remember my name. And I like it better that way.

And I don’t tell Reno any of this, which sometimes makes me feel like I’m holding on to a weaponized secret. He never asks about Zack either, so I rationalize that maybe he doesn’t know all the things I’ve done before him. He knows enough of what I did with girls.

But sometimes I wonder, when we’re kissing like two desperate humans starved for touch, does something-a thought, or notion, or misconception, or tragic memory- pierce his head to cause him to shut down. When this happens, and it’s every time, I don’t ask. When my hands travel up his shirt and hits a certain spot, and he pushes me off him- gently though- then goes for a cigarette; I don’t probe as to why my hands suddenly hurt him. And when I kiss along his jaw, and he offers my name from his throat that sends shivers down the entire length of my body that I have no control and buck my hips against his- and we touch in a way that I know we both  _ want _ \- but he goes completely rigid like I’ve just stab him. And he doesn’t even have to tell me to stop, because I’m already crawling off him, and he’s back out to smoke. 

And I know an anxiety attack when I see one. But his hit different. It’s his eyes looking into space, completely devoid of any sign of life. But I can see his chest rise and fall as if he’s running. Sweat appearing on his forehead. And the times I’m granted the privilege of resting my head on his chest, I feel his heart slamming against my ear like it holds all the words trapped in his throat. And during those times he grips my arm so tight, I fear he might actually leave a bruise- like he’s trying to root me against him. Like he can’t bear to let me go. That maybe I’ll never come back.

Sometimes he just ups and leaves for the night. That usually happens when things get more intense and he doesn’t stop me when my hand glides over his pants. Or he dares himself, to get on top, straddle me, take my shirt off like if he doesn't touch my bare chest it’ll cease to exist. And just when I think, and my stomach starts to flutter, and I want to tell him he can do  _ anything he wants _ \- because I trust him- he freezes completely. And can’t look into my eyes. They’re stuck staring at something else, or someone else, that I can’t see.

I learned early not to try to touch him when this happens. Made the mistake the first time and I thought he would break my wrist with how hard and fast he grabbed it and yanked. And from how his eyes suddenly came home. And he saw what he did. I realized he was the one who disappeared. He left that day. He didn’t call the rest of the night. When I saw him the next day at school, he pretended nothing happened, and we never talked about it again. 

Another time, same thing, minus the physical attack because I didn’t touch him. But he still dragged himself off my body, mumbled he needed to go and vanished out the door. No call. Two days. Monday, I found him in our bathroom, sitting on the sill, smoking a cigarette, looking as displaced as ever. And I confronted him as to why he left and didn’t call. That I was worried. 

And he threw all my insecurities in my face. He reminded me that I was the one who freaked out in this very spot. That when he tried kissing me in the car, I pulled away. That I told him I wasn’t into guys. 

He dictated my feelings. Told me that I needed to be sure.

But I think he’s the one unsure. 

And I fucking hate how he thinks he can tell me what my emotions are. Who the fuck gave him that right? 

We had our first real fight that day. And I stormed out of the bathroom a second time.

And for a second time, he ended up in my basement, against the bannister, apologizing. 

I accepted and didn’t ask the other questions that rolled through my head. Because he was back, and that was enough. But that doesn’t mean those questions don’t still burn in me. And I want to find the right words to ask him without chasing him away. 

I mean, is there a right way to ask your boyfriend “why don’t you want to have sex?” without coming off like a fucking creep? And when is the right time?

We’re on my bed. Which is dangerous. Because more room means more access. And my parents aren’t home. Saturday afternoon is now dedicated to couples counseling and date night. Trying to repair their broken relationship that shattered like the picture I punched- which dad never even mentioned. Neither of them mentioned anything about Thanksgiving. Mom came home the following day, we ended up not going to my aunts because they hate each other, and we decorated the Christmas tree when I got home from the mall- with Reno. And my mom was all smiles, and made up some story about her hand, that she sliced it cutting apples even though the cut is directly on her palm. And I made up an equally weak story that I punched a wall in my room when I lost a video game. 

And that was the end of all the conversations. And I’m getting real tired of not getting answers.

But right now, with Reno’s hands in my hair pulling me closer to him, and my tongue in his mouth, because I want to feel in control this time. I don’t care about anything. Except that he tastes like Marlboro Reds and his tongue is soft and inviting. I keep pulling away slightly to smirk at how  _ dumb  _ my parents are; leaving the two of us alone, none the wiser. Because we’re boys. I push him down with my body. Run my fingers against his face. Moan something along the lines of:

“God, you’re so  _ fucking _ hot.”

And he smirks. “God had nothing to do with this.” And he does look absolutely like the devil against the cloudy winter light that leaks into my room. Like all the thoughts that plague his head are written on his face. And I want to hear them in his throat, telling me all the things he wants to do to me.

But I’m on top of him. Pressing him down and he isn’t running this time. And I move my lips down to his neck. And he doesn’t stop me. I glide my hands over his pants, where I feel him, and he responds by moving his hips into my touch and moaning my name softly. And he isn’t freezing up. I unbutton his jeans. And he moves to capture my lips again. I slip my hand into his jeans. But he while groans something that sounds like a muted  _ yes _ , his hand snatches my wrists and stops me from going any further. 

Almost like it was programmed. 

I pull away from him. I study his face which creases with confusion at his own actions as he narrows his eyes at the offending limb. His eyes dart to the ceiling; his breath harsh and angry. 

“Do you want me to stop?” I ask.

He shakes his head no. But what comes out is a frustrated, “Yes.”

I pull my hand from his pants, and move so he can sit up sharply. I lay my head on the pillow and watch him. He buttons his jeans and sits on the bed, in silence, with just his strangled breaths. He runs his fingers through his fire of hair which stands out against his white T-shirt and pale skin shimmering against the light. He looks towards the window and I can see the side of his face, eyes completely torn, eyebrows slanted, jaw so tense I’m afraid he’s going to break all his teeth. I see all the conversations he’s having with himself. I see them, but can’t hear them. And I would give anything to run my hand along his back and bring him back down to me, hold him. Assure him I won’t do that again, if he doesn’t want me to.

But I know he’s about to bail.

“I have to go,” he says and starts sliding off the bed.

“Wait.” And, like I’m also programmed, I jump off the bed and beat him to the door which I block. 

Mistake.

He has the look of a trapped animal. I swear his eyes flash a crimson read. Fists clenched. He’s resisting the urge to attack- because he’s no longer standing in front of his boyfriend. He’s standing in front of a stranger. I move out of the way of the door, silently telling him he can leave at any time. But he doesn’t move.

“Reno-”

“Cloud.” His voice rumbles with anger. 

“Can you please…” I put my hands on my hips like that’s going to help me find the words. And he arches an eyebrow at me like he’s confused at my sudden outburst. “I mean, can we talk about what’s going on with you?”

“What do you mean?” he nearly growls. 

I bite my lip. I think it’s going to bleed. “Can we talk about why...you may not want to have sex?” I scrunch my nose up because-wow-that sounded straight up dumb.

But his response infuriates me. “Who said I don’t want to have sex?”

I squint my eyes at him waiting for him to change that answer. He just stands there, now with his arms over his chest, as if I am the one in the room not making any sense. “You...just told me to stop. Which, is fine-”

“Is it?” He asks like it’s an accusation. 

“It is,” I reply with a sharp edge to my voice so he understands how much I actually mean those words. And he looks away for a moment and swallows back, probably another, insult. “But...I just want to make sure I’m not doing something wrong. Or doing something that makes you uncomfortable. And what I can do-”

“Do you even  _ know _ how to have sex with a guy?” He snaps. His eyes back on me and filled with judgement that I don’t even recognize him. “Have you  _ ever _ had sex with a guy?”

“N-no,” I stutter, “But-”

“Well I have,” he counters, “So you’re pretty much a virgin.”

“Well I’m not…”

“You are when it comes to sex with a guy. Which means I’ll be your first.” His face relaxes, finally, I see some of my boyfriend return. He drops his arms, “which means one of two things will happen. Either you’ll get clingy  _ as fuck _ . Start planning our entire future. Get mad if I don’t call you back. All that stupid shit. Or,” he pauses, and I see his eyes break in front of me. “Or you’ll realize your not gay. And it was all a mistake and blame me for...everything.”

If I didn’t think he would punch me in the face, I would pull him into my arms. But that’s not what he wants from me right now. I’m not even sure how to respond. I’m sure I’m looking at him like he sprouted a second head, because he avoids my gaze and stares at the door knob- his exit. But when the first rush of sympathy washes over me, a rogue wave of resentment follows. And we’re back at square one with him dictating how I should be feeling. Making assumptions about my reactions. And while I understood the first time he’s done this, when I came out a week after telling him I wasn’t gay, this time…

It’s been almost two months And I’ve wanted him every.single.day. 

I cross my arms over my chest and nod my head to acknowledge that I’ve listened to him. “Okay.” I start, but take a minute to ease my tone. “Do I get a say in how I feel?” He brings his fractured eyes to me. Trembling blue marbles that look faded and worn. And offers a solemn nod. “Yes? Good. Then can I present you with a third option- and neither one of those things happen and instead I just fall more in love with you than I already have?”

Some of the deeper hues return. He opens his mouth then closes it tightly. Swallowing hard. And I think back to when he first told me he was hitting on me, and how confused I was. How much I wanted to believe those words and reject them at the same time. 

“You’re in love with me?” he questions. 

“Is that okay?”

“Isn’t it too soon?”

“Maybe it is for you. And that’s okay. I didn’t say it for you to say it back. And I didn’t say it so you’ll have sex with me. I just don’t want you to think I’ll reject you.” I scan his face for a response. But he continues to look me directly into my eyes as if waiting for me to take everything back. Snatch it away as soon as I relinquish it. And I wonder if that’s what happened to him. “Reno, I was gay before you. And I’ll still be gay if there’s an after you. And right now, today, I want you- all the time. No matter what.”

He blinks a few times. “That’s….a line.”

“You don’t like?”

“A little corny.”

I snort- and finally a soft smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah, fine, it’s corny. But I mean it.”

“Always?” And I hate the uncertainty that crushes his voice. 

So I respond with enough conviction for the both of us: “All the time.”

There’s still a heavy weight in the room. And a wall built around him. I know I meant every word, but his eyes glitter with doubt. 

He curls his lips and takes a deep breath. “Right. Uhm. I’m still going to mosey home though…”

My heart cracks. “Got it.”

And he walks out the room, slamming the door behind him. And I try to pinpoint the exact moment that I ruined everything we tried to build. 

The vacant house seems to tremble with ghouls. And voices that want to tear me down. And I want to be anyplace else. 

* * *

There’s no telling if or when Reno will call. And waiting seems self-destructive. I start making a string of phone calls, frantic almost, because if I have to stay in this house for another minute, I might set the whole place on fire. But even with every phone call, I feel worse. Because I can’t tell them why I am suddenly desperate for company.

Vinny suggests we all go to his house- strictly because he doesn’t feel like moving from his bed and leave  _ Halo 2 _ \- which is logical since everyone else lives in that general area. Cid and Barret are down, as usual. I even try Seph, purely for the ride. He picks up, grumbles about Vinny being a weirdo who smells and he has better things to do on a Saturday than play video games. I don’t bother with the argument. I stare at my phone, and look at Aerith’s contact. She knows more than the rest of my friends. And I want to be around someone I can talk to, freely, about what’s happening. Besides...she’s my friend.

She picks up on the first ring, apparently shocked I called. I invite her to Vinny’s and I hear the way her tone becomes inquisitive; as if she suspects I have selfish reasons for inviting her to join the fun. But she accepts the invite and even gets us a ride through Elmyra. 

Finally, I call Tifa- regretfully noting, to myself, that she was the last one on the list. Freaking, Aerith beat her. I bite my lip when she answers with a short tone. 

“Why are you still mad at me?” I blurt out instead of the original question. 

There’s a long pause. “I’m not mad,” she clearly lies. 

“Is it because of Biggs?” I press. 

“Well, you called him a pussy and Cid punched him…”

“Is he your boyfriend?” 

Another pause. “We’re just friends.”

“So what’s the problem?”

She lets out a loud exhale. “Nothing-a.” I want to chuck the phone out the window. But I swallow all other inquiries into my friend’s personal life. I invite her to Vinny’s and she genuinely seems shocked. She asks if Yuffie and Jessie can come, as if I have control over Vinny’s house. I tell her yes because, really, I don’t care. 

I text my parents to let them know I’ll be at Vinny’s with the rest of the gang. And before Aerith and Elmyra pull up, I text Reno:  **You don’t have to hide from me.** It takes forever because I don’t think text speak is appropriate for something so personal. And I even take another second to look at it before I hit send; recalling one of the rules. But if he can use my words against me, then I should use his against him. I hit send. And I’ll accept the consequences. 

I get in the car as soon as the text is sent. Elmyra immediately turns around with a curious look. “So, Aerith tells me you didn’t realize me and Iflana were together?”

My cheeks burn and I glare at Aerith who turns in her seat to smirk.

Elmyra shakes her head at Aerith, “Men.”

We have her drop us off at a deli down the block from Vinny’s house, on the pretense that we are getting snacks. Which is half true. I also need cigarettes. Aerith grimaces when I ask for the pack of Menthols and I feel the lecture that she unleashes as huff. But she doesn’t say a word, not really her problem anymore. Vinny lives at the end of aptly named High Street. The winter chill breaks through my leather jacket and gloves like a sword. Aerith comments at my lack of weather appropriate clothing as she wraps her small arms around herself. And like instinct, or maybe the familiarity of the situation, I put my arm around her shoulder as an extra layer of protection against the wind. 

She doesn’t even flinch. Just nuzzles her face into my chest to keep the ice laced air from pricking her skin. But there’s no butterflies that erupt in my stomach. Or even pleasurable vibrations. But that’s also familiar. 

Everyone’s eyes burn into us when we walk into the warmth of the small house. Especially Jessie, who hides her vengeful expression by darting her eyes back to Yuffie to continue their conversation. Tifa looks more confused than anything else. While the boys in the group pull me into dramatic handshake/hugs and whisper suggestive implications in my ear. Tifa greets Aerith warmly, the two having mended that fractured bridge the night of the party. And the brunette doesn’t seem bothered by Jessie’s cold hello. Vinny emerges from his bedroom staring at all of us silently until we quiet down.

“You want to see something cool.” He announces as a statement rather than a question. 

“Not really,” Barret hesitates, “The last time you said that, you showed us horse porn.”

“This is not as cool as the horse porn,” he smirks, “trust me.”

Everyone exchanges a concerned look, but we follow him out the door- figuring that it can’t be something from his porn collection if it resides outside. We go through the side of his house, which stinks of trash, stepping over forgotten projects his trucker uncle leaves behind when he makes a rare appearance. He leads the way into the backyard, which is oddly larger compared to the rest of the house- Yuffie complaining about the cold as if we forced her to wear a  _ skirt _ in the middle of winter. 

“Look,” he points to the center of the yard, and surrounded by half broken chairs rests a new fire pit that looks oddly familiar. 

“Is that Johnny’s fire pit?” I ask.

“Yes.’ He responds with an uncharacteristic smile upon his face. 

“He sold it to you?” Aerith inquires. 

But Vinny slowly shakes his head with a dangerous expression on his face and mouths a creepy “no.”

“Vin,” Cid’s turn to question him, “Did you kill Johnny and take his fire pit?”

There’s entirely too long of a pause. Vinny just stares at us with that same cheshire grin as his red eyes move to each and everyone one of us that it sends shivers down our spine. The wind howls, whipping his dark, greasy locks of hair around like snakes that slither. 

Then his smile fades and his face returns to stone. “Come help me light this up.” He says to the group and walks towards a shed where...well...I hope there's fire wood. But he never answers Cid’s question. We all exchange concerned glances which run down the entire conversation we wish to have- is he being serious? Is he being Vinny? He likes getting a rise out of people. Is it better to just follow along?

Really, do we want to know? 

Do we care? There’s a fucking fire pit.

We gather the supplies. Cid and Barret argue about how to light up the Home Depot fire wood. The girls gather some of the junk from the side of the house to use when the fire wood expires. Vinny and I use our wicked good looks (and the hundred dollars my dad left me) to convince his aunt to get us beer. And we celebrate with a disgusting vodka and lemonade drink Vin creates- that I even hesitate to consume more because I think Vincent Valentine might be actually trying to kill us. The fire pit ignites the cold afternoon air. The cloudy sky shimmering against the black smoke that rises. The smell of burning wood fills our nose mixed with the tobacco from our cigarettes. The frigid wind only a slight inconvenience, but Vin supplies the girls with blankets, and even kindly offers Yuffie some sweat pants to shield her legs. And she blushes when he smiles at her. 

Even I feel a small bit of electricity charge my chest when I see everyone talking and getting along. My cold beer clutch in my gloved hand as I stand next to Cid and Barett, all three of us chatting about the New York Giants completely failing this season after a promising start. Jessie finally warms back up to Aerith after some liquid courage, and already planning some girls trips with Tifa and Yuffie. Vinny, ever the silent type even when he’s trying to frighten us, sits next to the smaller of the raven haired girls, and looks around at his handy work. He nods approvingly when our eyes meet and raises his beer to me. He’s so weird. But I return the gesture. 

And then my phone starts vibrating. 

I dig it out of my pants and my heart halts when  _ R-Money _ shows up on the screen. I excuse myself from the group, and dip next to the shed out of earshot. 

“Hey,” I answer. 

“Hey….” his voice hitches, “Where are you?”

“Vin’s house with everyone…”

“Oh,” I hear the disappointment in his tone. “W-What are you guys doing?”

“Vinny might have killed Johnny and stole his fire pit, so we’re all hanging out around it, drinking, smoking, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Vinny did what?”

“Stole a fire pit.”

“Before that.”

“Killed Johnny?”

There’s a pause. “You and your friends are fucking weird.”

“If by weird, you mean awesome because now we have a fire pit, then you’re right,” I laugh and I can hear his soft chuckle echo through the phone. “Why don’t you come by?” I bite my lip; this isn’t a party. This is a small get-to-gether with the core group of friends. But...even if I can’t be close to him, I don’t want the conversation in our room to be our last exchange for the night. And maybe we need a distraction from the cloud hovering over us.

He sighs, “I don’t know.”

“I really want to see you,” I confess, even if my voice sounds pathetic and pained. “I mean, if you want to.”

“I want to see you. But, I don’t know. Kinda weird if I come by, right? Like who am I to you?”

“You’re  _ my  _ friend, and that’s all they need to know.” The pause on the other end of the phone is deafening. So I double down. “Tifa’s here. Maybe Rude might want to come...and Aerith to, don’t tell me Tseng isn’t interested in her. And Reeve is a weird bitch like Vinny, they’d probably get along.”

“Hmm,” he muses, “Are you pimping out your friends so we can spend time together?”

“It’s not pimping. It’s matchmaking.” I argue, “Tifa’s hung up on some bitch ass right now, I think Rude’s a better guy. Maybe I’m just helping a brother out?”

“Don’t...ever say it like that again,” he laughs and I feel a semblance of normalcy return, “Okay. I’ll ask them, but either way, I’ll be there.”

I give him directions to Vinny’s place and hang up. I’m suddenly completely overwhelmed with heat that burns my cheeks. But also overwhelmed by the several sets of eyes resting on me like lasers ready to strike. My heart doesn’t know if it wants to beat for the anticipation of seeing him or if it’s actually a panic attack from having to confront my friends.  _ Guys are allowed to be friends _ . I’m only nervous because I think they can read my thoughts. They can’t. Reno’s my friend and that’s it.

I return to the group, trying to be as aloof as possible. Everyone’s staring at me but I direct my attention to Vinny, who has his head cocked to the side with another sneaky smile on his face. “Reno and a couple of other guys from school are coming by.”

“Which other guys?” Barret asks.. 

“Rude, Tseng, Reeve,” I respond with a tone as chilled as the brisk breeze. 

And everyone lingers on me for two excruciating seconds. And then return to their original conversations. 

As if this announcement is completely normal. 

* * *

Reno shows up twenty minutes later with his group and more beer; so they are welcomed with opened arms. His group assimilates effortlessly with ours. Rude and Barret discuss their disappointing loss against Xavier that knocked them out of the playoffs this year. Reeve and Cid both are on Lacrosse, so they gravitate immediately; Cid also pleased that Reeve stuck by him in the fight against Biggs (though reluctantly). Tseng makes himself comfortable, dangerously, close to Aerith, who blushes when he greets her. He also doesn’t seem to mind when the rest of the girls, sans Yuffie who remains attached to Vinny’s hip, gravitate towards his demeanor of apathy.

I sense the tense aura around Reno when he takes a seat next to me. Out of our element. We play it chill. Aloof handshake as a greeting. Like we didn’t just have our tongues in each other’s mouths a few hours ago. He remarks on the beanie on my head, _ nice beanie _ , he tries to mock but there’s the infliction in his voice that makes it sound sincere. I dart my eyes at him, briefly. His beer in his hand, leg bouncing which I can tell are his nerves betraying him, and head resting in his fist with a look of boredom etched on his face. And maybe this wasn’t what he had planned for the rest of tonight.

I start rolling a few joints, getting a plan I have in motion. He makes small talk with me, his voice soft as a whisper so the rest of the group doesn’t take notice. But everyone continues to engross themselves in their conversations. They also do not notice that he and I are slowly moving our seats away from the fire, replacing the warmth of flame with the chill of the blackening sky. 

Cid, now a few beers and two vodka drinks in, announces we should play “Never have I Ever.” 

“Out,” I say immediately. 

“You suck, why?” He chastises.

“Games stupid.” I reply as I complete the third joint. He waves me off, knowing this is a losing battle. But the rest of the rosy cheeked gang feel good enough to play- except Vinny who has disappeared into the house with Yuffie. And they all close themselves into a circle, with Reno and I pushed out. And I see the wave of relief rush Reno’s face. I lift up the joint at him, “Wanna get fucked up, bro?”

The first smile of the night cracks along his features, “Yeah,  _ bro. _ ”

We grab our beer and walk a little further from the group, enough that it doesn’t look too suspect. Covered by the darkened backyard. We lean against the rusted chain link fence that surrounds Vinny’s house. 

“I hate playing this game,” he nods over to the group who are getting ready to reveal their deep dark secrets. 

“Yeah? Why?” I spark the joint. 

“Can’t stand lyin’” he smirks. 

Then Cid begins with the typical, “Never have I ever sucked a dick!”

We both snort laugh as the girls protest how  _ boring _ the question is, obviously head hunting, even as they take their respective sips. 

“See what I mean,” he continues. Our eyes meet. And slowly bring our beers to our lips and take a sip. And I see the way his eyes twinkle before he looks away, with red cheeks and a snarky smile. 

Tifa counters, mocking tone and all, with the second most typical question: “Never have I ever ate pussy!”

I sigh for this one and take a hidden sip. I look at him, but he shakes his head. 

Reeve up; he’s fumbling. Reno mouths a  _ don’t do it man _ . But Reeve does, “Never have I ever had sex.” The girls, like a chorus, yell “aw” which must make the poor guy feel ridiculously small. And the guys try not to laugh. Barret going as far as to comfort the clearly embarrassed Tuesti. Reno and I exchange a shrug and both take a sip.

“Girl,” I murmur. 

He pauses, “Both.”

I knit my brows together. I realize he isn’t having fun listening to our friends regal tales of their debauchery. Now with Tseng up boredly professing, “Never have I ever kissed a guy.” Which means Cid has to drink with a narrowed look at the other boy. Reno shifts his eyes to me as I take a small sip. 

“Did you and Highwind make out?”

“What? You don’t make out with your friends?”

And I know where this is going. And eventually Barret will do his usual “Never have I ever hooked up with Cloud Strife” and then half the group will need to drink. I tap Reno’s hand with my beer and nod over to a bench a little further away from the group so we can talk with more privacy. 

I take a long hit to kill the nerves with white smoke that fill my lungs, and pass it to Reno. I watch as he looks at the small white stick for a second, running his teeth over his bottom lip with a distressed expression plaguing his eyes. And before I can make a playful jab at him wasting my weed, he says as if choking on the words, “I think I’ve been projecting my last relationship on this one.”

He takes a hit and blows the smoke away with his apprehension. Continuing, with his voice hidden under the raucous laughter of our friends. “And I’m not really good at talking about shit. I’ve just been pushing it away-it’s a waste of my time to dwell on what happened.”

“We don’t have to talk about this now,” I assure him, “if you’re not ready-”

“Nah, this is the perfect night for this conversation,” he jokes, “sitting in thirty degree weather, with all our friends a few yards away, under a starless sky with a fire pit that may or may not have been stolen.” His voice laced with strained sarcasm. The smile on his face drenched with pain. Like it’s part of a mask and not his own.

“He begged for it, you know,” he continues, “said that it would bring us closer together or some pathetic shit that like. And I held off because I knew it would be a disaster. And  _ boy howdy was it ever _ .” He shakes his head at the memory, rough breaths escape his lungs, “I did everything to make him comfortable. I asked if he was sure until it wasn’t sexy anymore.” He unleashes an unceremonious laugh, that sounds riddled with knives, as he chugs half his beer. “I mean. It’s fucking traumatic but if it didn’t happen to me, I’d probably think it was the funniest shit ever.

“Like, I’m fucking  _ in this kid _ and he starts begging God for forgiveness.  _ Who the fuck does that? _ ” He runs his fingers through his hair and I watch as his blue eyes well with harsh wet tears. Then his voice drops, the laugh dies against his throat. He crushes the rest of his beer and chases it with a long hit from the joint so his coughing could be an excuse for the water in his eyes. And when his throat recovers from the onslaught, he whispers to no one. “Stop would have been better. I stopped anyway, but shit, could have said anything else but that.” 

I struggle for something to say. “Damn,” comes out first, “I’m really fucking sorry, Reno.”

He passes the joint back to me, his eyes bearing into mine. “It’s not you. I don’t want you thinking it’s you.”

I take it with a nod. “You know we don’t have to do anything.”

“Yeah, I know that,” he shrugs, “But I don’t think it’s fair that he gets to have that much control over me. It’s fucking bullshit.” he bites his lip, “And I also don’t think it’s fair that you have to deal with this-”

“Deal with what? Your trauma?” He offers a half nod, “Like you deal with mine? This isn’t some one sided relationship, you know. I’ll take anything you have.  _ All the time _ .”

Before he turns his face away, I see his lips try to curve and the hot red tint glow on his face. He mumbles about me being corny, again. 

“Reno,” I start again, “What are you really worried about with me?

He stares into the black abyss overhead with a frown that crushes my chest “You were in denial too, Cloud. What if you freak out?”

I figured out that was coming. And maybe in this circumstance, it’s fair. “Well, I don’t know if I believe in God, so I don’t expect asking for forgiveness-” 

“Seriously, Cloud.” He shoots me an incredulous look. 

“Sorry, right,” I sigh- fuck I suck at this-, “my...being in denial had nothing to do with religion. I wasn’t even afraid at first. I knew what I was attracted to...” I look over at my friends, completely engaged in their game. Their laughter. Some of the flirtatious banter from Tifa and Cid that no one would bat an eye at, not even me. Tseng leaning over to Aerith and whispering something in her ear that causes her to blush. No one gives that a second look. Its all… “but it was one more thing that made me...different. Everyone’s parents are normal. Mine are a mess. My head is a mess. And then, on top of all of that, I don’t like girls. It’s not the norm. Nothing about me is normal…

“It’s stupid now to even say it outloud. But...I just wanted one thing to be the same as everyone else. And then my first experience was not pleasant. Zack,” I cringe when his name touches my lips, “he just....didn’t handle it well when people started giving him a second look for hanging around the  _ weird _ kid.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” his voice cracks, and I feel worse than bad, but he doesn’t look at me anymore. He stares daggers at the empty space above. “I don’t want to go through that shit again.”

“You’re not making me feel bad,” I respond quickly, “ _ Nothing _ you could do could make me feel bad. But, look, if giving my first blow job in a canoe by a lake when I was  _ thirteen _ didn’t entirely freak me out, then I think we’re in decent shape.” I roll my eyes at the memory; and he tears his glare from the offending sky to me mouthing  _ what the fuck _ . “The point is,” I rush past his question, “I’ve done some shit. With lesser boys. And I’d rather do those things with you.”

“Damn, you and these lines today.” He tries to hide the smile that threatens to expose him. 

“Working?”

“Kinda….” his voice trails off, “Kinda wish we were alone.”

“Oh? What would you do if we were alone?” 

“I don’t know, maybe let you suck my dick so you stop dropping corny ass lines.”

“ _ Let me,  _ huh _?  _ You’re going to have to ask nicer than that!”

Some of the noise from our rowdy group travels to our ears and both jump as if exposed. But it’s just Cid ripping his shirt off and yelling: “ _ I don’t give a fuck, I’ll give all of you a lap dance” _ and then charges for Reeve.

Reno shakes his head.“Why do we have these conversations around all these people,” he laughs.

“I don’t know, maybe we like the feeling of danger?” I acknowledge with a grin.

“Now I can’t hold your hand without it being weird,” he sighs as he leans back against the cold fence. 

“Do you feel any better by the way? I know I fail at this kind of stuff.”

“Hit or miss.” He pulls out a cigarette, his eyes on the black sky. The moon casting shadows long his face giving him a cold blue hue that enhances the glow in his eyes. And he smirks. His typical look. “But, yeah, I do, actually- feel better. I never told anyone. But... _ I trust you _ . And it’s nice knowing I’m not the only one who went through this shit.” He lights his reds, “and you’re not weird, babe- well you are- but I laaaa,” he rolls his eyes with a huff, “Like that about you.”

I wish we were anywhere else but here. So I can kiss his head and tell him that means  _ everything _ to me. But I settled for shooting him a warm smile .And I whisper “ _ I love you,” _ so the wind carries it to his ears. Watch as he hides his smile with his cigarette. And he returns with  _ I feel it too _ . But he’s not ready to say it and that’s fine. More than fine. 

We bask in the fleeting moments of our shared existence away from the eyes of our friends. Until the inevitable demand of our return from their shouts across the yard. The night air has gotten too frigid, and hunger has attacked most the group and the promise of pizza and more cold beers, in the warmth of the Vinnny’s house, proves to be alluring. They extinguish the fire and we all make our way inside, Reno and I drifting behind with the rest of the group. The sounds of their drunken laughter offer a second layer of protection. And when Aerith, who is in front of us, steps in the house with a wink directed us, Reno takes a risk-

And grabs my hand-

His leather gloves warm against my fingerless ones

And he pulls me against him, our chapped lips crashing together like a hot solar flare that destroys all logic. 

But we pull away as fast as we came together. Because there’s still risks. 

He whispers against my lips, “Thank you.”

And my smile against his, stealing a moment to caress his face, “I’m in this, okay? Always.” 

  
And he releases my hand, “ _ All the time _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends!  
> I was feeling something is missing in this chapter. I stayed up till 1am editing it. It's about 18 pages long and about 7000 words. So I would actually like feedback on what everyone thinks.   
> Also, I raised the rating to Mature since we will be getting into some more mature themes going forward now.   
> But as for actual full blow sex scenes, I'll give you guys a heads up, and there won't be explicit sex in this; more like implied. Fluffy colors and such.   
> But please let me know if I am missing any other tags! This is my first time on A03 so I am getting used to the tagging system. Please do not hesitate to let me know I missed anything. I want this story to be accessible to all.
> 
> Thank you to EVERYONE who left kudos this past week. I jumped from 42 to 75 in 5 days. It really makes my heart swell when I see that. However, my husband believes those are rookie numbers and wants to me to get 100 XD
> 
> And thank you to everyone to left a comment on the last chapter. Short, long, I don't care! It helps me better my writing and inspires me for later chapters.
> 
> Thank you again!


	19. Red, Blue, and Yellow Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the Christmas episode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> Implied sexual themes. 
> 
> \--Here's a little bit of a lighter chapter.--

** Chapter Nineteen: Red, Blue, and Yellow Flowers **

There’s been a question burning in Reno’s eyes for months. And I felt it the moment he looked at my paper during Physics, one stuffy Wednesday, and instead of formulas for calculating velocity there rested a grave of all the words that I buried in my head for years. And when his chair creaked, it alerted me to his gaze, and I quickly flipped the notebook over to a blank sheet and tried to follow along with Hojo’s lecture.

And when later that day, I asked him for his notes because I hadn’t been paying attention, he smirked as he handed me his notebook. But he didn’t ask then. And he didn’t ask when I got an A on a creative writing piece for English that I refused to let him read, even after Mr. Matthews complimented the story and suggested I join his literary magazine. But I curled my lips as my cheeks flushed, and I told him I’d think about it. And when I looked at Reno, he was tapping his pen on his lips while his eyes examined my face. 

So I knew it was only a matter of time before he offered volume to that question. 

And it finally happened on one of the permanently gray winter days, laying on my bed flipping through the channels trying to find something to watch, though I enjoyed the sound of rain mixed ice crackling against the roof. I had pushed the bed against the larger window so we could smoke without alerting my parents- though they currently did not occupy the house. He leaned against the wall, up against my  _ Slipknot _ poster, blowing smoke into the frigid air with his legs on me- firmly keeping me in place. The large weeping willow directly outside the window provides a barrier to keep out any wandering eyes. 

I could sense the question brewing when his eyes remained frozen on me; and I continued to focus on the changing channels as if avoiding the inevitable and considered putting on a horror movie to at least take advantage of the eerie day when he finally vocalized his inquiry. 

“What do you write about?” 

I arched an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

He grumbled. “You’re definitely not writing Math problems or Physics notes in your books.”

“How do you know?” I darted my eyes at him as he extinguished his cigarette in an astray and he looked annoyed with my resistance. 

“I ain’t askin to read it,” he continued, “just curious. Never met anyone who  _ likes  _ writing.”

I turn off the T.V- there’s nothing worthy- and toil his question in my head for a minute. “I used to write more when I was younger,” I admit, “thought I had something important to say.”

“Who says you don’t?”

I shrugged. “They were stupid. The stories, I mean, that I used to write.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he smirked, “What were they about?”

“Just kid stuff. I had one story about a boy and his dog. That he loved his dog, and they were best friends because he was alone. Then the dog died and the kid cried about it for the rest of his life.”

“That’s...sad,” he chuckled and shifted as if uncomfortable, “what else?”

I tried racking my brain. I haven’t thought about these stories in years. Every since the urge to write died along with my innocence. But a few gems start appearing. “I had this whole series about flowers. There was a red flower who was always angry, and a blue flower that was sad, and the yellow flower as sick, and the purple was a serial killer-”

“Why was the purple one a serial killer?”

“I don’t remember. I think I felt purples were killers.”

“ _ How  _ could a flower be a killer?”

I closed my eyes to try to remember. “I think it was a Venus flytrap and would eat anything that came into its mouth. And the blood of it’s victims would run down its stem, into a small stream where the ants would drink from. And the blood of the dead caused them to become zombie ants, and they devoured their queen.” 

I looked over and his eyes were wide. “What in the  _ actual _ fuck, babe?”

“What? I was like eight!”

“That doesn’t make it better!” he shouted with a smile. 

I rolled my eyes, “Don’t ask if you’re going to judge me.”

“Okay, okay, sorry.” He adjusted his position, now laying next to me propped up on his elbow while he dances his free hand along my chest. “Tell me more. I am very interested in eight-year-old Cloud’s disturbed mind.”

I snickered, “Jerk.” I took his hand, running my fingers across his healing knuckles that I never asked about and considered changing the subject. But he looks genuinely interested. “Okay. I think my favorite story was the red flower, actually. I even turned it in for a contest at school.”

“Red, huh? What was that one about? Another murderer? More zombies?”

“No, I am not a one trick pony,” I laughed, “No. The red flower was the most beautiful flower in a dark, dreary forest. It lived in the only patch of wood where the sun could shine directly upon it, and it grew these long beautiful red petals. However, the red flower was greedy, and selfish, and sucked the life from any other flower that grew near the sun's rays; because it wanted to be the most beautiful flower that ever existed. Then, one day, something...terrible happened? I think it was a nuclear bomb or something- I was really scared I was going to die in a nuclear holocaust or something. I don’t know. Anyway. Something happens and the forest is nearly destroyed. However, all the debri and broken trees collapse over the flower and block the sunlight. And the flower starts going through the five stages of grief- denial, bargaining, anger, depression- but it never accepts its fate. And it’s petals wilt and turn black. And it dies alone, in the destroyed forest, miserable.”

An uneasy pause descends over the room; where the only sound comes from the rain hitting the tree outside, as it sways against the wind- its dead branches scraping against the brick house like skeleton fingers. I don’t look at Reno, more because I’m trying to remember the mindset I had to be in to write that story, and if the rough draft was hidden somewhere in a box of old notebooks that I refuse to throw out but can’t place where I hid them. 

“Well,” and his voice hitches, “Do any of your stories have happy endings?”

“Hm,” I halted with caressing his knuckles and he took the opportunity to grab my hand. “No. I don’t think any of them had happy endings. I wasn’t happy.” 

“You weren’t happy at  _ eight _ ?”

“No.” My response is short. I don’t bother telling him how at eight I had no friends at school. Sephiroth took to tormenting me with the rest of the popular boys. My parents were going through one of the down periods. First time I remembered my mom going to rehab; though they called it a vacation. Like I was stupid. And it was the year my dad’s younger brother-Luca-the baby of the group, died in a drunk driving accident. Dad cried every day until the funeral, and I never saw him cry before or since. And two months later, his parents died within days of each other- they say from a broken heart- and my dad didn’t cry because he used up all his tears for his brother.

No one was happy. 

Reno rested his head on my chest which jars me from my thoughts, and I instinctively wrap my arm around him so he’s as close to me as possible. 

“Are you happy now?” he whispered against my neck as he planted little kisses like flowers along my skin. 

And my eyes burn. The hole in my chest that I thought I filled slightly cracks at the sound of his voice. And I know how he makes me feel safe, and secure, and full, but are any of those words synonyms for happy?

“Yes,” I lied, because I didn’t want him to worry anymore about me than he already has. And he pauses and runs his hands through my hair which drag my eyes into his; and I’m drowning in his lingering gaze; charged with concern. Like he saw right through me. So, I pressed my lips against his in the hopes he will forget all about my happiness.

I don’t know the meaning of the word. 

* * *

That was weeks ago and we never breached the conversation again; which is fine by me. He doesn’t need to know about the words I write in the linings of my notebook when my mind drifts away. His attention to my writings has been stolen, anyway, with the ending of the semester, Christmas looming in the rapidly closing distance like a guillotine. And he’s been moody ever since it was confirmed that the majority of Christmas vacation would be spent in his hometown. 

He sits at the kitchen table with a vexed look tattooed on his face as he stares into the wall opposite of him with such intensity, I consider he might actually crack the wall. His arms firmly over his chest as he nearly shakes the whole table with his twitching leg. And this has been the look since he entered my house with an attitude. Grumbling about school work and papers, and how he hates English and Mr. Matthews has it out for him.

I’m attempting to outline his essay for him so he can  _ actually _ get it done instead of staring at the blank piece of paper as if hoping five paragraphs would appear if he looked long enough. 

I finally grow tired of him moving the entire earth with his nerves and slap my hand on his offending leg to stop him. “Babe, shit,” I look at him, “are you okay?”

He doesn’t return the look, instead he snaps “could you stop asking me that?”

“So you can ask me ten times a day if I’m okay, but I can’t ask you?”

“I don’t ask you ten times a day,” he grumbles. “You always look miserable, I give up.”

“Wow!” I try not to take offense. “And here I am working on  _ your _ paper.”

“No one asked you to do that, you took it upon yourself.” He bites back, even though he didn’t protest my taking over his English assignment. Then he murmurs, “I fucking hate critical lens essays.”

I continue, attempting to ignore his tense look,“ _ Anyway _ , the quote is: ‘In a dark time, the eyes begin to see…’ by Theodore Roethke. I need to know if you agree or disagree.”

“I don’t fucking know,” he barks, “stupid quote.”

“Okay…” I roll my eyes, “I’m going to say you disagree. Your evidence can be  _ The Crucible _ and- ”

“How am I supposed to defend my stance? It’s not even a full quote.”

I take a breath, trying to remain the more  _ mature _ one in this relationship. But, fuck, he’s testing me. “Well, analyze the quote first. What do you think it means? Think of the symbolism behind eyes?”

“Eyes are eyes. If it’s dark, you can’t see. It’s fucking science.”

“Okay, well, he isn’t being literal. Eyes are considered windows to the soul. The way I saw it, the quote suggests that we can only truly  _ see _ , or visualize our own faults or the faults of a society, when we are faced with challenges or trauma. I’m using  _ Young Goodman Brown _ as one piece of evidence. He was truly able to see the hypocrisy of the Puritans when he was faced with the image of the devil. In a sense, the darkness the devil provided allowed him to  _ see _ the truth behind the people in his village.”

“That doesn’t make any fucking sense,” he argues back viciously. It’s not personal. I know it’s not personal. He’s not even looking at me, but I can’t help the way my stomach drops with every word he slings at me with complete disregard. Or control how my mind starts criticizing every reaction I take. I’m not countering enough. I’m countering too much. I’m irritating and he’s unreasonable. 

So I stare at him, bite my tongue, and wait for him to sense my displeasure with his attitude. He finally moves his eyes to me and I can see the darkness that clouds him. The pain and anger he struggles to process. I’m just collateral in his civil war- and I’m growing real frustrated being destroyed in other people’s battles. 

“Do you want to fight?” I challenge, “Cause we can fight instead.”

He takes a sharp breath and looks away. “No. I don’t want to fight.”

“Okay,” I shove the mock outline at him a little more aggressively than I wanted, “Then can you stop taking your anger out on me? I’m not sure if you're just pissed because you have to go to Tennessee, or if there’s something else bothering you,  _ because you won’t tell me _ . But I’m just trying to help.” 

I go back to my own work. Finishing up our presentation for History that he didn’t want to finish because he couldn’t focus. And that’s been his excuse for the last week. But I swallow any more protests and just continue taping images of the  _ real _ anti-slavery advocates Pre-Civil War to a poster board and writing up index cards. When I feel his arms suddenly wrap around my shoulders and his head on mine- our hair mixing together. Like blood red on a blank canvas. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Oh  _ wow, _ I got a sorry? Must be serious.” I grab a hold of his arm to keep him in this position. 

If my sarcasm offended him, he doesn’t retaliate- which actually makes me more concerned. Instead he tenses around my body. “I don’t want to go back.” His voice starts off blank, but then I can feel the forced smile on my head, “The Titans suck this year, there’s no reason to support Tennessee now...” He chuckles. And that’s not why he doesn’t want to go back. I get up from my seat, to shake him off me just so I can turn and pull him against my body. 

“Giants sucked too,” I sigh, and run my fingers through his hair. He avoids my stare, instead lingering on the logo on my shirt as if he’d never seen a My Chemical Romance tee. “I know that’s not why you don’t want to go.”

“Yeah,” he grimaces.

“You’re coming over the day before you leave, and I have a present for you that’ll help, I think.” I run my nails up his spine and smile as he shivers against me. “And I’ll be here when you get back.”

He snakes his arms around my neck and finally brings his eyes to meet mine. “You got me a present, huh? Hmm, corny. Didn’t get you anything.”

“Wow, terrible boyfriend,” I joke. “Didn’t even get me a present, on this, our first Christmas together.”

“Who are you again?” 

We both laugh before he leans in and closes the gap. Our lips together and he tastes like blue. Like deep rooted sadness. Like salt water. Cold and suffocating. And I’m overwhelmed, and want to pull away and tell him to give me all his trauma so he doesn’t feel so full of conflicting emotions. But he, almost as if he can tell I’m about to stop, deepens the kiss. So I feel the burning red. The artificial burning red. The processed passion. That he offers as a bargaining chip- the ‘please don’t start unraveling these threads’ because they'll tear him apart. 

But when I do pull away, I whisper on his lips as if compelled by another force, “You’re the blue flower.”

“What’s his story,” he gathers both hands into my hair and rests his forehead on mine. 

“The blue flower is the sad flower. Who grows from concrete. His seed planted when a bird dropped him during a flight. And there’s no other flowers like him so he’s alone amongst the weeds. And he’s so starved for comfort than he lets the weeds choke him to death just to feel something other than crushing loneliness.”

“Jesus Christ, Cloud,” he shouts, jerking away slightly, “I think  _ you’re  _ the sad blue flower.”

I ponder for a moment, “Maybe we’re both blue flowers.”

“Fuck, can you write me a new story? Or Can I be the purple flower? Fuck.”

“Don’t dictate my creative process,” I snark back. And we allow the smiles to tug at our lips.

“You’re such a weird kid, yo. I think I love you.” 

And he hesitates for one beat of our hearts before he presses his lips back on mine while I go completely rigid when the words hit my ears. And those words have been said to me before. But in moments or pain. As begging not to leave. In the throws of more robotic passion. This time. 

It feels like every color this world has to offer. 

“Wow,” I breathe against his lips, “That’s really fucking gay, bro.”

And he whacks me gently over the side of the head, “You’re such an ass. Why do I like you again?

“I believe you said love?”

“I take it back.”

“Nope, the universe heard. You love me; you have spoken.”

He rolls his eyes and untangles my arms from him. “Be useful and write my paper for me.”

“Demanding . You’re lucky  _ I love you _ .” 

He offers me a suggestive look that glimmers in his eyes as he leans over the table to look at the history project. I come up behind him as I’m not ready to let him go and run my fingers along his sides as he examines the work I put into  _ our  _ project. He presses against me and I let out a soft gasp which elicited a chuckle from his perfect lips. I nuzzle his neck, leaving small kisses, between whispers of all the reasons I love him; and he brings his hand to tug on my hair and lets out the the most amazing sound in the world from his throat-

When the crashing of a body down the stairs shakes the house like an earthquake. Glass shattering like a crack of thunder. 

I look at the ceiling light like I’m looking at god and yell, “Fuck.” turn towards the source of the sound. The quiet moans of pain drift into the kitchen. I turn back to Reno who knits his eyebrows together as he stares into the darkened living room. 

“Stay here,” I order. And he nods. 

I stomp to the staircase, trying to keep my breathing controlled because I’m going to see her lying there and snap. Hoping she didn’t break a bone so I don’t have to call my father. I flip the staircase light on, and my mother sits on the bottom stair in her silk pajama pant set, looking around like she’s been hit by a truck, running her fingers through matted dirty brown hair. Her eyes then lock on to the broken picture at her feet, and her eyes completely fall apart.

And furious is the word that comes to mind. 

“Mom, go back upstairs, please,” I seeth through my clenched teeth. 

She starts slurring about the picture on the floor, and the glass on the floor, and crying about her on the floor. So I do what I have to do and gather her in my arms. And she’s sobbing into my shoulder all the apologies I’ve heard before. And other incoherent words I can’t make out. And I want to scream back, right in her porcelain face, that I’m absolutely  _ mortified _ by her performance. Why couldn’t she just stay in her fucking room and  _ die _ alone when I have my boyfriend over. I don’t want him to realize how fucked this entire family is because I’ve given him every other reason to bail. 

Instead I feel hot angry tears in my eyes and I don’t even bother hiding them from the dark shadows in the hallway. Or the pictures of frozen smiles that hold a million lies. I kick open the door to her room, and roll her out of my arms onto her bed. And she lays there in a fetal position, her frail body shaking from either withdrawals or from the sobs. Taking harsh breaths that sound like the rasp of a broken trumpet. 

And I remember the sick yellow flower. 

“I’m so sorry, Cloud,” she moans into her pillow. 

“It’s fine mom,” I snap. “Just stay up here, please.”

The yellow flower lived under an oak tree that held all the rain water and freely gave it to the flower.

“I’m a terrible mother,” she buries her face completely, “I’m such a terrible mother.”

“No, you’re not, mom. It’s really okay,” I angrily wipe my eyes like I’m eight again. 

And the yellow flower had all the rain water she could want. But the oak tree blocked out the sun. 

“It’s my fault. Everything is my fault.”

The yellow flower had a stem that was lush and green, with large leaves that wrapped around the smaller, newer, flower. But without the sun the petals bright like a canary faded…

“You and your father are better off without me, baby.”

And faded.

“Mom, please, just stop it.” 

And faded. Until the petals fell. And there was nothing left of the yellow flower.

She howls into the pillow like a dying animal that needs to be put out of its misery. But dad’s coming home soon and if he sees her like this, with Reno in the house, he’s going to hit the roof. So I beg her to sleep. I pray to a god I don’t believe in that she’ll pass out so I can go clean up her mess before he gets home. And I think about the duality of hating her for making me grow up entirely too early and the desperate need to keep her safe from the wrath of my father. Like he’s so fucking innocent in all this. 

Her sobs finally subside.

But I still hear gentle cries.

And realize they’re coming from me. 

I walk downstairs like a zombie. And stop at the last step where I see the broken picture and pick it up. It’s another family portrait that’s met its end. Except it's from when I was just born and my parents are filled with starry eyes and huge smiles as they hold me up for the camera. And I huff at the vision of innocence and wish I could remember being that happy. 

Reno’s still in the kitchen, finishing up the history project for us, and turns when I walk in. He doesn’t ask about what happened. And I am grateful for that. However, he does follow me to the trash where I remove the picture from the cracked frame and throw out the debri. 

“Holy shit, is that you?!” He gasps pointing at the child that’s obviously me. “You were a fat little chunker weren’t you?”

“Wow,” I toss the picture on the counter unamused. But he takes it immediately. 

“Look at those fucking arm rolls; you look like the Michelin tire dude.” 

“You’re being a jerkoff,” I grumble.

“Hey, you were a cute baby. I went through my ugly phase when I was born. Fucking creepy looking.” Then he dances his eyes towards me, “Clearly I grew out of that phase.”

I force a smile as I inspect his additions to the project. Or at least I pretend to. I pat down the black and white printed photos of David Walker, Fredrick Douglas and Sojourner Truth. And I traced an index card with my finger which detailed everything the Emancipation Proclamation  _ didn’t _ do. And I picked up the sheets of paper with the script Reno has to read when we present, because that was the deal. And I tried to force myself to be proud of my hard work for once. For myself. Because no one else would.

And I guess I look absolutely wrecked because Reno silently walks over to me, and wraps his strong arms around my body. 

And he doesn’t say anything when my tears stain the poster board. 

* * *

**December 22, 2004**

Reno’s leaves for Tennessee tomorrow.

And we’re both pretty bummed about it and spent the entire day of school scowling like two gargoyles on the roof of Saint Peter’s Church; even though he’s coming over at night so we can spend our last few hours together. He managed to convince his parents it’s completely logical for him to stay at Rude’s house so he can leave with his cousin for the airport. Thus, relieving the Sinclairs of the burden of their older son. Rude, having deduced a long time ago that Reno is seeing someone, agreed to cover for him if the red-head let him borrow the BMW whenever he wanted. The only stipulation, Reno needs to be at his cousin’s house before 3:30am when the house wakes up to get ready to head to the airport. 

I don’t even bother telling my parents that Reno is staying half the night. They barely notice my existence. My mom also became an even more frantic mess when she realized we were three days before Christmas and she had gotten  _ nothing _ , so she’s been shopping since I got home from school. Dad will be home the usual time to change out of his work clothes and go to his German Club, or whatever excuse for him to drink at Killmeyer’s on a Wednesday night with his buddies. And even if my mom gets home when Reno’s here, she’ll charge up the stairs with her bottle of white wine to wrap as many gifts before she passes out.

I could literally hold an entire orgy in this place and no one would notice.

No one would even care. 

I stand in the kitchen, the only room illuminated in the entire empty house, staring at take out menus as if I’m going to order anything. My stomach curls at the idea of eating anything. I’ve been a meatsuit of nerves since Reno dropped me off with promises to come over around 5 in between quick kisses in front of my house. I have his present downstairs and I feel sick to my stomach to actually hand it over- he’s going to think it’s corny. It is corny. I never bought a present for a guy. And this isn’t even really  _ buying _ him anything. I made or gave him parts of me to take on his trip. But, fuck, when did I become this sentimental person?

Girls were easier. Give them jewelry. I gave Aerith a locket for Christmas and put exactly zero thought into the purchase. I just knew she was like a crow and enjoyed shiny objects. She doesn't even wear it anymore. 

But the present isn’t even the main cause of my sweaty palms. It’s the idea that something  _ more _ will happen tonight. We’ve been getting closer to crossing that line between over the clothes touching to actual, physical, touch. He’s been more relaxed since our conversation- not completely. And there’s something that gnaws at the back of my head that he didn’t give me the whole story. That something else, another painful memory, keeps him from letting me explore his whole body. And that’s fine. 

I’m fine.

Because right now I feel like I’m going to throw up. 

The sliding door opens and Reno appears in my kitchen with a backpack that I assume holds all the essentials he needs for a week-long trip to Tennessee. He tosses it to the side and comes over to give me a firm kiss like he’s just got home from work, and this is our home, and we are living in domestic bliss. And the thought crushes the nerves that wreck the rest of my body. Because the idea just feels so  _ right _ . 

I pull away with one arm around his waist. “Are you sure your parents aren’t going to call Rude’s parents looking for you?”

He lets out a bitter laugh, “Yeah right. My mom and Rude’s mom  _ hate _ each other. They speak exclusively through the kids. And my dad and uncle have their heads so far up Shinra’s ass, they wouldn’t notice the world ending. 

“Besides,” his face tenses, “There’s a bit of an agreement. I get to do whatever the fuck I want- get a sweet car, go out all night, no one gets on my case about school- as long as I don’t get caught making out with a guy.”

“As you make out with a guy,” I remind him, my smile loosening into a frown. 

“I said  _ caught _ . Can’t do shit if they don’t know shit.”

“How articulate….”

“Now now, don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours,” he runs his fingers through my hair and yanks me against his lips. And I’m too caught up in the passion. The myriad of colors that dance behind my eyes- the yellows and oranges- that I forget to ask him if his parents already know his secret…

Then the front opens, signaling my dad and we quickly pull away and jump to opposite sides of the kitchen. Trying to hide the reds in our cheeks as Reno mumbles  _ centipedes in vaginas _ . 

“You need a new fucking saying,” I snap quietly just as my dad walks into the kitchen, a big ol’ toothy grin and glazed eyes as if he started the party a bit early. 

“Oh big surprise,” he announces, “Reno’s here. Again. Are you moving in? I think I’m about to claim you on my taxes.”

“My dad may actually fight you on that. Pretty much all I’m good for is a tax break.”

“That’s...incredibly sad.”

The red-head shrugs, “Such is my life.”

“I don’t remember being this angst-y at your age.” And I resent that my dad decides to dart his eyes on me, leaning against the counter with a moody look on my face and arms over my chest, as if his comment is more directed at me.

Reno laughs, “Weren’t you like sixteen in the 60’s? Wasn’t everyone high anyway?”

I snort laugh at the horrified expression on my dad’s face who glares at my boyfriend. “I wasn’t born until 1966. I was sixteen in 1982.”

“So...you were high on coke then?”

“I can’t tell if I like you or not,” dad sighs. 

“It’s part of my charm.”

“Anyway,” my dad brings his eyes back to me, “what are you two getting into tonight?”

And I swear I almost said  _ each other _ like a jackass because I may have smoked right before Reno showed up in a failed attempt to quell my nerves. But now I feel punch drunk and anxious as my dad bears into me with judgmental green-blue eyes that look like the South Beach ocean. “Um,” I stifle a laugh, “Just chilling.”

“Playing video games,” Reno adds, “you know. Boy stuff.”

“Yes, manly things.”

If Reno was next to me, he may have punched my arm. My dad either can’t tell I’m floating in the air, or doesn’t care, or has more pressing issues. He nods a cautious, “Okay. I’ll be at the club with the guys. Have fun. Not too much fun though,” he looks between the two of us, “I’m not sure if I trust him, yet.”

“Trust me, I’m the  _ good _ influence in this rel-friend-friendship.”

“We’ll see Reno, Nevada.”

My dad bids us farewell as he jogs up the stairs to get changed. 

“Are you fucking  _ high _ ,” Reno snaps, jumping infront of me, “And you didn’t even  _ wait _ for me?”

“Sorry,” I try to stop the chuckle, “I’m nervous.”

“Why are you nervous?” His voice softens, as he presses against me; pushing me against the counter, “You think something’s gonna happen?” His breaths against my lips and the shivers shoot straight for my groin and I almost completely forget my dad is walking around just one floor up. He smirks before he gives me one soft kiss on my lips. 

“Not just that,” I whisper, “You’re going to make fun of the gifts I got you.”

“Wow!” He shouts, “Do you think I’m some kinda asshole?” He looks offended even with the smile on his face. 

“Uh, do I have to answer that?”

* * *

He grabs my shirt and pulls me towards the basement door, “Alright, now you  _ have  _ to show me. So I can roast you.”

Reno sits on my couch with a shit eating grin on his face as I nervously shift next to the end table where his presents rest underneath. The yellow light dances along his hair, igniting the flames, and in my altered state think I might burn if I touch. My heart slams against my ribcage and I walk through all the possible outcomes of tonight. And I grow with more anxiety until his sarcastic voice hits me over the head:

“Well, we’re waiting,” he says like Ted Knight in  _ Caddyshack _ . 

“You go first,” I counter.

“Are you serious?” he frowns, “Stop being a vagina.” I don’t move and he rolls his perfect blue eyes and digs into his backpack, grumbling about how I’m being absolutely ridiculous. “Is this what you’re going to do for my birthday? Hold my gifts hostage.”

“Who says you’re getting anything for your birthday?” I smirk, “Plus, if anything, it’ll be a Valentine's day combo.”

He glares at me with one arm still in the bag, “It better not. I will literally fight you. Valentine’s day doesn’t exist. It’s Christmas, New Years, Martin Luther King, Reno’s birthday.” He pulls out a black box, not wrapped. “By the way, impressed you remember my birthday.”

“February fifteenth. Do you remember mine?”

“Uh,” he brings the box onto the couch, and I take a seat across from him. “August….eleventh?”

“Good job,” I smile as he pushes the box to me. “You know anything about Astrology? Aquarius and Leo’s are direct opposites. But have a magnetic attraction to each other. Literally Yin and Yang.” 

“God you’re a fucking nerd,” he snarks but I see the smile that spreads along his face. “Hurry up and open your present so I can get mine.”

“Is this a shoe box-”

“Cloud!”

“Alright!” I take off the cover with a chuckle and immediately freeze when I see what lays in the box. And my heart explodes. Into a million petals that drift through my stomach. Resting in the center, a black leather bound book with the initials “C.A.S” engraved in silver thread. I gingerly take it out of the box and open it as if it would shatter. A lined notebook. 

“So you can write all your stories in there,” he elaborates, “maybe write some happy endings once in a while.”

I run my fingers along the lettering. “How did you know my middle name?”

“Oh, yeah,” he laughs, “I actually snuck into the office and found your file. It just has your middle initial, not your whole name.”

“Asher,” I tell him.

“Asher,” he repeats, “Cloud Asher Strife. What a fucking name.”

I shake my head at him but remain glued to the book. “Alright Reno-whateveryour middle name is-Sinclair.”

“I’ll have you know, my parents didn’t think I deserved a middle name.” He scoots closer to me, “Hey, that’s not the only thing. Even though it's probably the best gift, not to brag. But I’m pretty fucking awesome.”

I leave the book in my lap, not willing to relinquish it just yet and look at the rest of the box. I pull out a plastic baggy with black Fender guitar picks, thin from what I can feel, and perfect for acoustic strumming. And a black velvet case that I open to reveal a silver chain made to look like barbed wire and I grin when I remember the conversation we had on Black Friday, looking through the aisles at the Hot Topic:

_ I think I’m a chain guy. _

_ You are definitely a chain guy. _

_ I think I’m going to buy one of these chains. _

_ No, don’t be cheap. If you’re going to be a chain guy, commit to that shit. _

“Where did you find a real silver barbed wire chain necklace for a guy,” I pull it from the box and admire how it shines against the muted basement light. 

“I believe I just said I am fucking awesome.”

I place it back in the box for now, running my fingers through the wires that feel semi-sharp against my skin. The thought that went into each gift. Picking up on random conversations we’ve had. Watching me closely, intently, and ensuring that every present meant something to  _ me _ . “Yeah, I guess you are awesome,” I smile. I can’t look at him because I’m afraid of what my eyes will do. And like he knows, he kisses the top of my head and rubs my hair aggressively. 

“Now,” he pokes my arm, “my turn.”

I place each object back in the black box with a short  _ fine _ , because my gifts to him will pale in comparison. I pull out the box, an actual shoe box which I see him laugh at immediately- so off to a good start. “I don’t do wrapping,” I weakly counter. 

“Clearly neither do I,” he assures me as I hand him the box. I plop on the couch to stare at the floor while he reveals each gift, occasionally looking over at the box with mine. My nerves shot. Convinced he’ll pretend to love everything to spare me the embarrassment-

“Holy shit, did you burn me a C.D?” I can hear the smile without looking up. But I carefully move my eyes to him. He’s sitting as close as possible to me, holding the CD case in his hand where I hand wrote “Songs to Commit Murder To Vol 1.” on the outside, and listed the twenty songs on the inside. 

“It’s all songs that either remind me of...uh...us, or songs that I heard in your car,” I rub my hands together, “I know you still have a CD player so maybe you could listen to it on your flight so you don’t have to listen to your parents.”

He smirks, “You put  _ Heretic Anthem _ on here. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He pulls out the next piece. “Is this the  _ Halloween _ t-shirt I liked? Wait…” he puts it against his face and I’m about to die right here on the couch, “Is this  _ your _ Halloween shirt?”

“Yeah...you-uh….said you liked it and you’re always fucking smelling me like a weirdo, so I thought you could have something of mine. I mean,” I sigh, “it’s stupid. So stupid.”

“Call it stupid  _ one more time _ and I’m going to smack you in the face with it,” he snaps, “Nothing you’re giving me is stupid. This is my favorite shirt that you own and I was actually trying to steal it from you the other day.”

“You’re trying to steal my clothes?”

“Who said I haven’t already stolen something of yours?” he hinted; and now I remember I am missing the blue and white plaid shirt I wore at Kyrie’s party. I glare at him and he just goes back to pulling out the last two items. “ _ Die Hard _ and  _ Batman Returns,  _ eh? I actually haven’t seen either”

I move past the obvious injustice that has been committed, and explain myself: “My family has a tradition, every Christmas Day we order Chinese food and watch my dad’s favorite Christmas movie-  _ Die Hard.”  _

“Since when is that a Christmas movie?”

“Since forever. Trust me. And every Christma Eve, Cid, Seph, Vin and I go to Tifa’s and end up watching  _ Batman Returns  _ at some point.” He holds each DVD in his hands with a dreamy smile on his face as he scans the covers like he’s never seen a movie before. “You...won’t be here to do any of that with, and I don’t know. I wanted you to be a part of those traditions, even miles away.”

I hear his mumbled  _ damn, babe _ . But I continue my anxiety riddled protests. “Your gifts were so, I don’t know, personal?” I huff, “And mine are, selfish? All about reminding you of me-”

He drops the DVDs back in the box with the shirt and CD, and in a blink jumps onto my lap so I am staring directly into his eyes. He runs his fingers against my face and up into my hair and fixes me to this spot. And the blue hues look like crystals that shimmer and glow.

“I’m saying this once to you,” he hisses against my lips, “I don’t reveal too much about myself to you, do I?” I nod. “Because I don’t know  _ who I am _ , Cloud. For my entire life, I’ve been told who I should be, what I should like, how I should act. And everytime I stepped out of that line,” he pauses as he scans my face, “I’ve been promptly put back in my place. But what I do know, as sure as I know the sky is blue, is that I love  _ you. _ All the time.” 

He releases his grip on my hair and drops his hand down my arms as mine travel up his chest. I forgot why I was so nervous in the first place. When everything he does lulls me into a sense of comfort. Maybe it’s the lack of familiarity with that feeling. That I can be my complete honestly, anxious, ridiculously corny self infront of him. 

“Cloud,” he leans in closer and I remember the first time he ever said my name; slow and intentional, and the waves that shook my weak foundation when his voice wrapped around each letter. “You’ve given me all parts of you, that I know you don’t give anyone else, and I’m not sure if I deserve them. But I’ll take it, because that’s the greatest gift. And now I have physical parts of you that I can bring with me, to a place I don’t want to go, and not feel so fucking alone.”

And before I can respond… our lips crash together. Like electricity. Shocked and stunned. My whole body responds with sparks. I grab his hair and pull him closer than I thought was physically possible. And today he tastes just like apples. And I don’t know why apples. Tart and sweet. But he also feels hot like the burning summer sun. And I wonder if a kiss could actually kill me. Because everything seems to stop. And go. At the same time. 

He pauses. And try to capture his lips again because I’m not done. But he presses his hand firmly on my chest and pushes me back. He’s breaths are rough against me, and I try to swallow back to moan that rattles in my throat. But he smiles. Satisfied at what he’s doing to me. “I’m going to do something,” he starts, and his voice sounds like boulders; deep, rough. He runs his hand down my body to the hem of my jeans, “is that okay?” I try to catch my own breath to speak, but words fail me and I nod. He smirks like the devil. And I remember why Lucifer was God’s favorite. “ _ Good,” _ he purrs, and I hear my pants unbuttoned “I’m going to take control here for a bit,  _ pretty boy _ . You just sit here and tell me about all the colors I make you feel.” 

Thought evaporates. Die when his lips touch  _ me _ . And it’s different from the first time. And the last time. All the times. Actually. He wants to know all the colors; all I see is the black behind my eyelids and shocks of white lighting. That sends me to a place I’ve never been. Somewhere between heaven and hell. But not a hell that feels like emptiness. Hell like the hot molten rock and lava. And I swear I almost laugh but I know he’ll stop, so I chase the smirk with a moan. And harsh breaths that drag against my throat like nails. And that feels just like the serial killer purple plant that chews it’s victims, and  _ fuck _ that feels good. And it’s the roughness from my throat and the soft strands of red hair in my fingers.

And all I see is light.  _ Bliss  _ is all I feel.

A strangled, chopped up,  _ thank you  _ escapes my lips when he returns to my lap. 

And he recoils, “Did you just thank me?” And I can only nod cause my body is still completely shut down, trying to reboot. “No one’s literally ever thanked me before.”

I kiss him to keep the sad thoughts I know will start to unravel this night and I just want him to feel as perfect as I feel, right in this moment. And to my surprise, he allows me to lay him on the couch, our lips still attached, his tongue in my mouth. And I note that he’s actually wearing sweatpants, like he anticipated tonight. Or he planned it this way. And maybe he did from the way he grabs my wrist this time to guide my hand. 

And now I understand that he needs to feel in control of the situation. I stop kissing him, and he growls in response. But I want to take a good look at him. Eyes flushed with passion. Cheeks red like his hair. And lips bruised from the intensity. And I make sure he looks back at me, with my own eyes and lips and face, and I wonder what he sees and how he feels when his eyes examine every line of my face. “Reno,” and his name vibrates against my lips and I feel elated when he smiles. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“Now that,” he pushes my hand under his pants, “Is a line I like to hear.”

The winter air offers the sting of relief against our bodies, still wet from the sweat and passion that enveloped us. I lay on the lounge, with Reno between my legs and up against my back. Slouched down a bit so his head can rest on my chest which still quakes. And I see the smile on his face everytime my heart beats against his ear. Like he knows he’s the cause. 

We were a mess. And he already has the  _ Halloween  _ shirt on under the fitted leather jacket he came with that I can’t imagine offers much reprieve from the cold. I had to sneak my way upstairs to get into some new clothes, without my mother hearing me or poking her head out of her room in a drunk stupor to ask me questions. Luckily, I heard the T.V blaring which drowned out my footsteps. 

We took to the outside world to smoke the rest of my weed to prolong the high. My arms around him and my face nuzzled in his wild hair that looks a bit more of a mess than usual. And despite the cold, I’m as warm as if wrapped in the comfort of artificial heat. We pass the joint between us silently. Words don’t do tonight justice. Nothing needs to be said that wasn’t said in the throws of passion moments ago. 

He dances his fingers along my arms, covered only by my thin hoodie- which he argued about before we walked out the door- but worth the risk of the flu just to feel a bit of his touch through the fabric. I respond by taking his hand and linking our fingers to resting our joined hands against his stomach. 

And I know eventually we’ll have to leave this position. And he’ll be at my door, with his bag, and we’ll be whispering bitter goodbyes to each other with our fleeting kisses against swollen lips. And I know it’ll be a long week after spending nearly every day together. And even when he comes back, we’ll have to delay the gratifying moment we are back in each other’s arms. As pointless New Year’s Eve parties and useless morning traditions call us to our families.

But I know the moment he’s back in my room, we’ll cross that last intimate line and all the waiting will be worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Monday mah dudes!!  
> Thanks for all the Kudos lovely GUESTS. 123! We exceeded my husbands expectations. As also, love comments because they help me grow as a writer! <3 As a treat, I'm going to leave the 20 songs Cloud put on the mix CD he made for Reno. You'll probably see these songs pop up throughout the story:
> 
> Ride The Lightning - Metallica. Nothing Else Matters- Metallica. People=Shit- Slipknot. Heretic Anthem- Slipknot. Mayonaise- Smashing Pumpkins. Dragula- Rob Zombie. I Miss You- Blink 182. Yellow- Coldplay. Like a Stone- Audioslave. Hands Down- Dashboard Confessional. Can't Help Falling In Love- Elvis Presley. Everlong- Foo Fighters. I Walk the Line- Johnny Cash. Blue and Yellow- The Used. Somewhere Only We Know- Keane. Closer- Nine Inch Nails. Be Quiet and Drive- The Deftones. Hybrid Moments- The Misfits. 4U- Korn. Demolition Lovers- My Chemical Romance. 
> 
> As always, thank you all for your support. Please comment if you can!   
> New Chapter FRIDAY.


	20. Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never knew  
> Well I never told you  
> Everything I know about breaking hearts  
> I learned from you, it's true  
> I've never done it with the style and grace you have  
> But I've made long term plans  
> Based on these mistakes  
> -"There's No I In Team" by Taking Back Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> Predatory behavior.   
> Implied dubious consent. 
> 
> Basically Sephiroth is terrible and gross. And I'm sorry.

The vacation week became a blur of get togethers and late night phone calls while smoking entirely too many cigarettes. A blur more so for how fast the week actually went and not the usual rollercoaster of black out drunk I throw myself on during these vacations. Much to Seph’s annoyance; as apparently I’m more fun when I funnel a bottle of vodka down my throat than when I nurse beers. And in fact the last time we saw each other, before the call of his parent’s annual New Years Eve party, we attended Tifa’s family Christmas Eve party.

He got us salvia. 

We smoked it while our parents got drunk on the floor above. The world looked like Alice in Wonderland for ten straight minutes that felt like ten hours. The five of us- Cid, Vin, Seph, Tifa, and I- laid on a pile of pillows and blankets in the center of her basement living room and stared at the glow in the dark stars that littered the ceiling. 

_ I wonder if when we die, our souls become stars. _

I said.

_ We become the trees. _

Tifa responded.

_ We become fire. _

Cid stuttered with a bitter tongue.

_ We become black holes and suck the life out of everyone _ .

Sephiroth cackled. 

_ I have no soul _

Was Vinny’s contribution. 

Apparently, I texted Reno my observation. And he merely texted back:  **how high r u rn?**

We smoked. We watched  _ Batman Returns _ and debated on which Batman villains we should be for next Halloween. Seph pretending he would actually participate and we forgot to call him out for bailing on us the last few years. For a minute, we were all getting along, if we just had our man Barret, this would have been perfect. We did drunk call him at midnight and he unleashed a string of curses before hanging up. 

On Christmas Day, my mother forced us to wear matching pajamas so she could take the annual family photo to send to her family to at least continue the illusion that we weren’t falling apart. However, I give her props because she got us custom made Metallica christmas shirts to wear with red and black plaid bottoms. And they told me how they went to the Monsters of Rock Tour in June 1988 when she was seven months pregnant with me- and I tried not to think about the debauchery that happened which would explain all my issues. After the picture, we opened presents and my mom could hardly contain her excitement when she dragged a huge box out of one of the closets. It was a guitar. The exact one I wanted. And I held it on my lap and ran my fingers along the strings. And thought about all the songs I could write in the notebook Reno got me. Maybe happier songs. 

“You should have told us how much you like playing guitar,” my dad chastised, “I would have definitely paid for lessons.”

**“** Well, pay for them  _ now _ ,” my mom countered, and I ignored the glare my dad returned. She returns her mixed gray eyes to me, “Hurry up and open your other presents.”

They got me an amp- and my dad suggested I go into the backyard and play any metal songs I know as loud as possible when the Sinclairs get home- and a ton more guitar picks for electric guitars. 

My parents exchange gifts with each other with tense thank yous and forced gasps of gratification. Dad got a new set of Golf Clubs and mom got an expensive jewelry set. They also got presents from “me” in the forms of basic clothing they needed. When I meekly apologized for the weak effort, or really, non effort. They both stuttered.  _ It's okay _ and assured me that my first excellent report card in two years will be enough. Apparently they spoke to my teachers and they were impressed with my improvements. I ran my fingers against my new guitar as they showered me with compliments. And I didn’t know how to respond, so I mumbled a moody  _ thank you. _

Reno and I spoke on the phone every night after nine pm when calls were free. Often I would be sitting on my bed with one of my guitars resting on my lap, and a cigarette in my hand, blowing the smoke out the window pretending he was with me. He would take the call outside, as far away from his family as possible. And each day his voice descended into crushing sadness as if being choked by weeds. And I did ask about it, but he immediately forced a laugh, and avoided the subject. 

He told me he would tell me everything when we see each other. 

And his voice sounded like the darkest parts of space. 

He told me how he listened to the CD I gave him five times already to drown out the sounds of his family speaking. 

And how he and Rude watched both movies together.

And Rude finally flat out asked what our deal was.

“Did you tell him?” I inquired.

“I asked if he really wanted to know and he dropped it,” he took a sharp breath and exhaled, “But he knows. He’s not an idiot. He’s had to cover for me a few times already.”

“Do you think he’ll tell anyone?” 

“Rude was the first person I ever told…” his voice trailed off for a second, “and he didn’t tell anyone then. He won’t tell anyone now.”

And if Reno trusted him.

Then I did.

* * *

The Sinclair’s were coming home New Year’s and then needed to make an appearance at the Shinra’s for their exclusive party. Reno called before his flight, risking his minutes, and told me to stay by my phone later on in the night. Those were the only directions. He mumbled an  _ I love you _ which was the first time he said it in a week and hung up before I could respond.

I sighed and flipped my phone shut. And even though I felt the vibrations of excitement,I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. 

But I ignored it.

The Strifes had an invitation to the Sterns they couldn’t decline. 

And I felt guilty at the lack of excitement for my friend’s party. All his baseball friends would be in attendance, leaving me the odd man out. Tifa and Vinny, and a few of the other friends, were celebrating at Cid’s house with their families, and I’d much rather be there. At least they were my people. The only consolation, The Gainsborough’s were also invited, meaning Aerith and I could stick together. But I could tell from the distant look in her green eyes, she hoped to be anywhere else.

Alexie Stern, Chief of Surgery, with a rare day off throws a party of overabundance and extravagance every New Years Eve. Their six thousand square foot house decorated with all the high end red and gold Christmas decorations they will dispose of promptly after the Holiday season comes to a close. The nine foot evergreen tree in the center of the house, in front of the wrap around staircase, blocking out the creepy family portrait at the center of the balcony area. They catered from a five star restaurant in Staten Island. A band plays the top hits from the 50s and 60s in the music room. His wife, Jenova, with her pinched hazel eyes, orders the servants they hired around the house with the personality of a badger. While Alexie greets every guest, regardless of age, with champagne and overentused hugs. 

Aerith and I roam the house sharing glances like silent conversations. And when she looks away I admire how beautiful she looks under the twinkle of party lights. Her brown hair down in loose curls, simple makeup that brings out the soft greens in her eyes. She’s wearing a knee length red dress with floral lace overlay (and I mentally hit myself for knowing what that is and remind myself to never tell Reno), with simple lace sleeves that show her arms. Her heels are black stilettos that she can barely walk in, she clings to my arm in an effort to keep herself upright. 

“Your shoes are ridiculous,” I snap as I try to guide her towards the basement where Sephiroth and his friends are already partying. 

“They’re Gucci,” she argues. Like that means  _ anything  _ to me.

“They suck.”

“I wanted  _ one _ nice thing for Christmas, okay? I never ask for anything expensive!”

“You can’t even walk!”

She nearly falls down the stairs, taking me with her, so I pick her up bridal style. “You’re making my life extremely difficult,” I huff as she wraps her slender arms around my neck. 

“My hero,” she giggles and I roll my eyes. “You think  _ you know who  _ will be a little jealous?” She jokes. 

“I think he’s pretty secure that you got nothing I want,” I counter with a sly smile. 

She gasps like she’s offended, “You could be a little less  _ rude _ about it!”

We managed to make it to the “kids” party without breaking any bones. Slowly I bring her back down to Earth, and she tries to steady herself on the hardwood floors, but I can hear the stilettos scrap and slip. She coils around my left arm like a constrictor and I offer her an accepting look- just hang on- and she smiles shyly. We make our way to the crowd of boys and some sporadic girls from school I barely recognize. Sephiroth immediately snaps his eyes towards us, squinting with an air of confusion, before curving his lips into a sinister smile. And I feel her grip on me tighten. 

He approaches us, a glass of whiskey in his hand as if he’s trying to emulate his father, “Well, don’t you two look cute.”

“She can’t walk,” I nod towards her shoes. 

But his gaze never leaves me, “Oh, I’m sure she can’t.”

All his friends are staring at us- Angeal, Genesis, Kadaj, Loz, and Yazoo- and all in matching black button downs and black dress jackets, and matching dangerous smiles that make me want to throw Aerith over my shoulder and head to Cid’s. The girls offer unenthused glares as they scan Aerith’s outfit; their judgement etched along their made up faces. I’m taken aback by their response to the brunette. Aerith is one of the more popular girls in the school with her contagiously sweet personality and genuine kindness. 

But I remember. 

Maybe some rumors spilled from my own lips was enough to change that. 

And I feel a tidal wave of guilt.

“So, can I get you two lovely people something to drink?” Seph asks. 

“Beer is fine,” I respond and look at Aerith, who nods with a wince of pain. 

I manage to locate a place for us to sit, and drag her over to the couch away from the group. She drops down and immediately takes her shoes off, trying to regain feeling in her feet. The girls in the corner chuckle. And I dart my eyes towards them with a fiery glare. Which makes them laugh louder. Sephiroth brings us our drinks, which we take though I feel the hesitation from Aerith. She waits for my movements before following. And I remember she didn’t do this when we were together. Always the one in control- sometimes I found myself waiting for her lead. 

“What have you been getting into Cloud?” Seph starts with an edge to his voice that I immediately pick up on. “Hanging out in New Dorp, smoking with Vin’s aunt and drinking at the beach?” His hazel eyes mock me. 

“Didn’t know you were so  _ above _ that,” I remind him. 

He smirks, “Got to grow up sometimes, right?” Then he looks at Aerith, who mindlessly takes a sip with her eyes glued to her swollen feet. “Nice to see you coming back around.”

She cautiously brings her green eyes to him and retorts blankly, “Our dad’s are friends and this is his holiday with me.” 

Seph loses his cheshire smile- looking between the two of us. “I have a feeling that isn’t the only reason.”

“Well, you were never the perceptive one, were you?”

I stifle a laugh with my drink. And I feel his vengeful eyes drill holes into the top of my head. I glance at Aerith, who has taken to massaging her pained feet and ignoring the silver-haired boy standing in front of us. Some of his friends call him back to their group, apparently poker is on the agenda. 

“Always great having you around,” he mutters, drenched in weak sarcasm, before returning to his group. 

“You don’t have to sit here with me,” Aerith offers, “You can go hang out with your friends.”

But I shake my head, staring at the group- the boys playing poker while the girls stand and watch like props. “Those aren’t my friends.” I turn back to her, “And I’m not going to leave you here alone.”

She blushes and looks back at her beer with a soft smile. “Thank you, Cloud.”

A flash of a memory smacks me across the head. All the times I left her sitting alone in this basement while I got drunk with Sephiroth and let his friends mock me for their enjoyment. While she watched, with a mournful expression in her eyes. Until it was time to leave and she had to drag me home- half dead to the world. And I never apologized. Instead, I would bite back like a feral dog if she questioned my drinking. If she asked me to stop. Which made me go harder. And I wonder now why I didn’t just listen to her. 

* * *

Dick Clark’s Rockin Eve on the T.V. The volume drowned out by the unneeded screams from the group in the corner of the room. Apparently, Sephiroth continues his winning streak against the rest of the guys. Aerith and I decided to grab our own deck of cards and play  _ War _ as a drinking game. Every time you lose a draw, you drink. If you put down the same card and have to draw three, whoever loses drinks three times. The game proves never ending; and I’m charged with grabbing more beer since Aerith refuses to move without putting on her shoes- and her swollen feet won’t allow that. 

In between rounds I check my phone. 

“Sorry I’m not more entertaining,” she smirks as we throw down our cards. 

“It’s not you, someone told me to stay by my phone.” I take a sip with my cards, and note she’s close to winning finally. 

“Oh?” she says suggestively, “Big plans later?”

I feel my cheeks burn, “No. Just. They probably want to call around midnight.”

“Hm,” she taps her chin with her cards, “I don’t know.”

“You’re drunk,” I counter, throwing down a King and she frowns when he reveals a two. 

As she takes her sip, two girls walk past us- and I recognize them from Track 2, both of them on cross country. One with long black hair and a fake tan, who I only know as Rebecca and her friend, with chunky caramel highlights that make her look like a skunk, whose name I can’t remember. And they take dramatic sniffs of the air as they walk near Aerith. Scrunching their noses. 

“Ew, do you smell that,” the raven-haired girl gags and darts her soulless brown eyes at Aerith. Who in response, slowly forces her shoes back on through the winces of pain. 

I snap, “It’s your snatch, Becky, I smell that shit from here.”

Poker chips rattle on the table. Everyone pauses. And I glance at Aerith, who looks horrified as her lips twitch. Broken conversations whisper from then boys.

“Fuck off Cloud!” Becky screeches in a thick Staten Island Accent. “No one even  _ likes  _ you.”

“And yet here I am, at the same party as you.” I roll my eyes. That insult bounces off me like a bullet ricocheting off armor. I’m so used to that phrase. It doesn’t burn me anymore. 

“Kadaj!” She whines, “Cloud’s being an asshole.”

I mumble a  _ god dammit _ as I hear her boyfriend’s leather shoes stomp towards me. Kadaj tries too hard to be a clone of Sephiroth. Same hair. Same sport. He follows around my friend like a peasant looking for scraps from the king. Sephiroth used to get him wasted and have him streak down the street because  _ he could _ . And Kadaj would gladly do anything his master suggested. And I laughed with the rest of the group because at least it wasn’t me making a fool of myself. But he also, when not squirming under Seph’s thumb, takes out his pent up self-hatred on his two buddies, Loz and Yazoo, or over compensates by fighting anyone he deems weaker.

And I don’t know why he wants to be reintroduced to my right hook, but I’m feeling generous..

I smell him next to me with whatever Axe body spray he’s wearing. And I know what he’s going to say before the flies from his mouth because, fuck, if these guys aren’t predictable. 

“You want to start something,  _ pussy _ ?” 

I rise from the couch, and I’m at least two inches taller than him. And the word doesn’t even cause me to flinch because of how  _ pathetic _ it sounds coming from him. Like a puppet. Yapping his mouth with no soul. I stare directly down into his eyes, and he looks back unrelenting. And I can hear the other shoes approach us, and the stench of cologne that’s his buddies brand. 

“I’m not going to start shit, but I’ll fucking end it.” 

Before this escalates, Sephiroth appears and gently pushes us away from each other with a roaring laugh that contradicts the air of tension in the room. 

“Come on Kadaj, you want to get your ass kicked by Cloud again?” He grips the other boy's shoulder with enough pressure that Kadaj flinches. “We don’t want a repeat of the fourth of July do we?” He brings his eyes to me, “You good, man?” 

I’m about to respond when Kadaj raises his voice again, “He should apologize to my girl.” Seph’s eyes darken, his grip tightens, but Kadaj doubles down. “He said her pussy smelled.”

And Sephiroth smirked, “Well tell her to wash it then.”

I feel...gross. Rebecca and her friend stomp off and Kadaj just weakly nods his head before returning to his group. I just wanted those girls to leave Aerith alone, not become a spectacle. 

Always part of the problem, I grimace. 

And Sephiroth shakes me out of my thoughts. He looks at me with oddly placed concern, which sends shivers down my spine. “You wanna go out for a smoke?” he asks and I’m taken aback by the gentle tone in his voice. 

I turn to Aerith who fidgets with her manicured nails while scanning the room; the contorted faces of judgement. The scowls of displeasure at our existences in this lap of luxury. And I look, with her, for a friendly face. 

Which comes in the form of Angeal. The giant of a man walks over to Aerith and in a voice that flutters like tiny moths, asks if she’s okay. And I’m not shocked. Angeal, unlike his comrades Genesis, Kadaj, and Seph, doesn’t exploit the weaknesses in people. A natural protector. The oldest boy in a family that consists of two younger sisters and a brother. And while we never interacted outside of parties, when Kadaj tried jumping me at the aforementioned 4th of July party- and after I knocked him out, and his two buddies tried to double team me- Angeal was the one who stepped in. Not Sephiroth, who laughed on his front lawn with a smile on his face. 

Aerith and I make eye contact. She gives me a nod and turns back to Angeal, who takes a seat next to her. 

“Nice shoes,” he comments, “My sister got the same ones. She can’t walk in them either.” They exchange pleasant chuckles. And I feel secure enough to let Sephiorth drag me out of the warmth of the house. 

The wind blisters relentlessly as we exit the home, pulling out our respective cigarettes. Sephiroth, more of a social smoker than an addict like me, places the clove between his thin smirking lips. The spark of the lighter illuminates the rough features of his face. His eyes glowing against the black of the night sky. Like two glaring meteors that threaten to crash into the earth’s crust. I lean against his house with my eyes focused on the stars that shimmer above. And wonder how many souls are watching from above. 

“You and Aerith seem to be back together,” he announces with a slight growl.

“We’re just friends.” I push back, “Ex’s can be friends.”

“Not in my experience,” He laughs. And I shake my head; because he never had a real girlfriend, just conquests. And that’s his phrasing. “She’s kind of a buzzkill.”

And I’m not sure if it’s the toxic tone of his voice.

The straight venom he laces with every word.

Or if it’s the slight tingle of intoxication that tiptoes through my brain. 

Maybe the adrenaline from almost exchanging blows with his clone. 

But I’m bold enough to confront him. “What did you do to her?” And it wasn’t so much a question, but an accusation. And he picks up on it immediately with his eyes slanted with restrained rage. He removes the cancer from his lips and blows the smoke in my direction. “My birthday,” I continue, looking at him directly in his eyes, “what happened?”

“What are you getting at, Cloud,” his voice slow and intentional. He enunciates every syllable like a warning. 

“You never told me what really happened…”

“What do you remember?” he stiffens. 

The memories have leaked from the hole in my head. Like a drip from the sink. That alerts the entire house to a problem, but I can’t locate the source. And it comes in waves. When similar sounds sneak into my ear. Or I see a set up that reminds me of that night.

I remember Vinny’s house after we were chased from the beach by cops. I remember playing  _ Kings _ and Aerith and I got into one of our famous drunk couple fights we had become known for. And Barret pulled me out of the house to smack some sense into me. His words sounded buried six feet under. So I pushed him away and stomped back into the house. Went into Vinny’s bedroom. 

“You were on top of her,” I say, my chest tightening, “and I jumped you.”

He nods, “Sounds about right.” His voice lacks any conviction.

“Why were you on top of my girlfriend?” 

“What did she tell you?” He brings the brown stick back to his lips and waits for me to respond. And I hate how he’s handling this. And I hate how I’m playing into this. Because I just need to know, for sure. 

“She doesn’t remember-”

He snorts, “Typical.”

“Sephiroth,” I snap, louder than I intended, but my voice flies against his ears like a slap. “She was drunk. Really fucking drunk. She blackout that night. So  _ why were you on top of her _ ?”

“Sounds like you’re trying to accuse me of something.”

“Sounds like you’re avoiding the question.”

The wind howls and bellows past us and whips his jacket against his body. And even in the darkness I can see the slanting of his eyebrows, the curl of his lips back that return with a scowl. He takes several tense breaths before he sighs. His features relaxing. “I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to feel like shit. But I guess I have no choice?”

“Never stopped you before.”

He smirks, “Alright, tough guy,” he rolls his eyes at me and I feel smaller than an ant. “I guess she doesn’t remember crying to me about how you refused to touch her? I went into the bedroom to make sure she was okay- you went  _ in  _ on her, bro. Over a fucking stupid game of kings. Poor girl was sobbing by herself. And she told me  _ everything _ .” And the way he says that last word...with a dangerous pause. My stomach drops. 

“Like how everytime you two tried having sex you couldn’t even get it up half the time,” his laugh cuts, “And that you would avoid touching her. She didn’t feel beautiful, bro. You made her feel like garbage. And…” he shrugs his shoulders, “I mean, she’s fucking gorgeous, could you blame me? I have her crying on my shoulder just  _ begging _ for someone to show her a little attention. So...I kissed her. That’s  _ it _ .”

I crush my cigarette in my hand, still lit, ignoring the burn. 

He darts his eyes from my fist to my eyes, “Okay okay. It was a shitty thing to do-”

“You fucking  _ think _ ,” I bark.

“But you have to shoulder some of that blame. Come on, man. You were a terrible boyfriend. Everyone says the same thing.” He snickers when my face betrays me and I wince at his confession. 

And Aerith would agree with that statement. And I was. I know I was. But there’s something that I can’t shake. The lack of sincerity in his tone.

Maybe he doesn’t feel bad. At all. He was doing her favor.

A favor she neither remembers or asked for. 

“Apologize to her,” I demand. 

He shoots me a perplexed look. “Excuse me? Why the fuck would I do that?”

“She doesn’t remember what happened. You do. Which means she was black out drunk and  _ you weren’t.” _

“I don’t like what you’re getting at, Cloud,” he warns. 

“If you really were just drunk, and stupid that night, then apologize to her. Tell her you didn’t mean to...take advantage of the situation.”

Sephiroth’s eyes darken to a dangerous shade as he glares into me- and it’s like I feel him in the crevices of my brain, pulling apart threads in the hope to completely disarm me. But I try to use the glow of pre-drunk to dodge his metaphorical attempts to overpower me. Make me relent. Take back the implication. But I refuse to be Kadaj and let him take hold of the strings. Not this time. He runs his tongue over his teeth like an animal.

And then shrugs like he’s bored.. 

“Fine. If it’ll make you happy.” he flicks the cigarette into the yard without a care if the glowing ember sets the whole place on fire. He walks back in, but makes sure to slam into my shoulder. I stumble back but regain my composure before immediately following him. 

I’m not sure how he’s planning on handling this. And I’m not sure if I trust him with her. And the way her eyes narrow when he approaches her and gently asks if she would come with him, I know she’s as reluctant as I am. She shoves her feet back into her shoes and follows him to a corner of the house for a semblance of privacy, slapping his hand away when he offers to help her walk. And even with the occasional wobble, Aerith makes the short distances. I cautiously follow behind, not too close. 

He takes her to a kitchen area with an island and stools. They take a seat and I strain my ears to hear their hushed conversation; barely making it out:

“It’s come to my attention that I may have acted inappropriate with you.” he begins with a shell of a voice. She doesn’t respond, instead, looking at the floor. So he continues. “Cloud’s birthday. I may have misread some signals and…” then his voice drops, cracks, like he’s pushing tears from a dead part of his soul. “I didn’t realize how drunk we were.”

“I told you no,” she whispers. And I knit my eyebrows together. 

“I...know. But then you didn’t.”

I can see her tense as she brings her eyes to his. “I was drunk. Cloud’s your best friend. At least, that’s what I thought.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, and with the way he’s sitting I can’t see his face, but I imagine he’s frowning. “He is. He really is. But….” he drops his shoulders, like his guard, “I’m jealous of Cloud.”

I nearly give my spot away with a snort.

“He’s...a better guy than me,” he continues with his voice pained, “He can be an ass sometimes, but he’s always had my back and I was jealous that he managed to get you and not me. I always thought you were the most beautiful girl in our school. And he’s so...awkward and I never understood the two of you but-” A scheduled pause, “I was drunk and you were telling me how terrible he treated you. I guess I thought...you were dropping hints. But I was wrong. Obviously. And I’m sorry for hurting you.”

His tone rehearsed. Inflections where appropriate. Even his body language, leaning in, hand on table, as a form of intimidation. And I wonder why I didn’t see it before. Aerith examines the man in front of her with an inquisitive eye. The flashes of uncertainty in her face were obvious. 

And I think about how she told me she didn’t remember. And if maybe she did. 

But what was the truth, then? And it’s his word against ours. 

“Okay,” she nods, “Thank you for apologizing.”

He leans back, his back tense. As if that wasn’t the response he was expecting. I watch as his finger taps against the marble island. The mocking sound caused Aerith to wince.. And he gently chuckles. “Thank you for listening. If there’s anything else I can do to make this right, let me know.” 

I make my presence known and emerge from my spot behind the wall. Aerith relaxes when her green eyes rest on me. Sephiroth turns slowly with a devious smirk upon his face. He slides off his chair, thanking Aerith once more for her time, and approaches me. He looks enormous, his head almost reaching the low ceiling. And I turn rigid like a statue as he walks by me. Pausing next to me to whisper:  _ happy now, Cloud? _ And I slowly move my eyes to him-silence- before he leaves to join the rest of his friends. 

Aerith doesn’t immediately move from her seat. I join her for the moment and take the seat originally occupied by Sephiroth. 

“Are you okay?” I ask, reaching out to take her hand- soft under my touch. 

She nods with a strained smile, “Yes. I’m fine.”

“Did...he lie? About anything?”

And she squeezes my hand, “Even if he did, Cloud, who really knows anymore?” She blinks back the brimming wetness in her eyes, “I just want to move on? Okay? Can we move on now?”

I agree even though a part of me screams at how wrong this all seems. But I have Aerith pleading with her broken eyes to drop the issue. And in the end, it’s her call. I release her hand for a moment. 

“Remember that special drink I used to make when we raided Seph’s mom’s liquor?”

She chuckles, “Oh you mean ginger ale and whiskey? Not really something  _ special _ .”

“Yeah but I add chili powder for a kick.” I jump off the seat and walk around the island to the good whiskey that Jenova thinks we don't know about. 

“Oh yeah!” Aerith makes a disgusted face, “So gross. But, like, not at the same time.”

I pull out the ingredients from various areas of the kitchen. “Just one, though. If  _ someone  _ calls and I can’t speak, they’re gonna be tight.”

She rolls her eyes, “Wow, they  _ must _ be special to control the uncontrollable, Cloud Strife.” 

I bite my lip, to hide the smile, as I make us the strange concoction I created one night where I maybe had too many. And maybe dared the group to try it. Everyone spat theirs out except Aerith who committed to consuming the entire glass and then demanded another one. 

And that determination was probably why I liked her so much. 

I slide her glass across the table. She makes a comment about my future in bartending. I remind her  _ I don’t think about my future  _ as we cheers. 

But she smirks, “I have a feeling you’ve been thinking about your future a lot more now.” And she takes a large gulp. 

I stare at the brown carbonated beverage with small specks of red floating against the ice. “Maybe you’re right.” And I follow her lead. 

* * *

We nurse our drinks- I think mainly because they are truly disgusting- and discuss school, and her clubs, and our parents. While the party continues to erupt on the other side of the basement. And we groan everytime we hear the voices leak into the private area we commandeered. I offer her a sympathetic look- silently thinking about how much better Cid’s house must be right now- when my phone starts vibrating. She jumps with me as if she was waiting patiently for him to call. 

I flip the phone open, noting the time of eleven p.m on the screen. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” Reno questions immediately. 

“Uh at Seph’s house...where are you?”

“God dammit,” he curses. And Aerith runs next to me and tries to crawl up my body to hear the conversation. As I try pushing her down and  _ away _ , he sighs. “Yeah, you know, fuck it. I really don’t want to wait to see you.” And the brown haired girl mouths  _ aw _ like this is her relationship. “I want to see you right now. Is there any way you can bail on your party and meet me at your place?”

“Yes,” Aerith blurts out and quickly slaps her hands over her mouth.

“...Please tell me that’s Aerith?”

“Yeah. She’s...drunk on whiskey and chili powder.” I glare daggers at the girl who drops her arms and mouths  _ hey _ . 

“I...don’t fucking have time to deal with what you just said,” he falters, “just....can you get to your place or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” 

“Good...don’t bring Aerith.”

He hangs up and I turn my attention back to the green eyed girl with the daring smirk. 

“Why are you so excited?” I question. Unamused. 

“What? I can’t be supportive of my friend getting laid?” She sways back and forth on the heels that no longer seem to cause her pain. 

“Who said anything about that?” I hiss quietly. 

“Oh, please,” she leans against me, her heels giving her enough height that her lips reach by ears, “he doesn’t want to wait to see you. He wants to meet at your place where no one's home. You two haven’t seen each other in a whole week. I’d say he has something planned.” She pulls back with her hands clasped behind her back. 

“You people are way to concerned with my sex life,” I grumble; nerves now igniting like little fire crackers through my body. 

But she shrugs and ends up downing the rest of my drink. “Well, I’m going to help you get out of here so you can see your friend, so you should be grateful.”

“How?”

She links our fingers together, “We’ll leave the party like this. And I’ll just go upstairs and cry to my dad to take me home because I don’t feel good.”

“You’d think he’d go for that?”

“I’m his  _ baby girl _ , he does whatever I want.” She sounds assured and it’s hard to argue with her. 

But I look at our linked fingers, “You said you didn’t want to...be responsible for keeping my secret?”

She swings our arms back and forth. Also resting her gaze on our hands before quickly scanning the basement for any unwanted guests. The roaring laughter over a barrier for our voices to speak in hushed tones without the risk of being heard. Though the uneasiness still existed and I’m not sure if this is the best place to discuss these details. 

But she begins, “You know, when my mom began seeing Elmyra, the neighbors started rumors. And they weren’t nice about it. She almost ended things, just to protect me from what other people were saying, even though El makes my mom so happy. She’s more confident with El. She smiles more. She even co-parents better with my dad. It’s amazing how much of a positive influence El is for my mom- and for me. I can’t imagine my life without her. She’s like a big sister and second mom rolled into one; and stupid rumors from stupid people almost ended that.” 

She pauses. Our arms coming to a slow stop. She brings her eyes to me and takes a harsh breath. “There’s been rumors about you…” 

And I feel my own body evaporate. That’s the only way to explain it- like it ceased to exist. Or I’m floating down the deepest part of the ocean. And the pressure crushes my bones into dust. I open my mouth to say something but stitch it shut immediately. 

She takes notice, and makes another sweep of the room with her eyes, before returning to me. “Rumors about the two of you had started up,” she whispers, “that you are  _ close _ .”

I think about my conversation with Reno after we first kissed.

How his parents can’t, under any circumstances, find out. 

And how quickly rumors spread through this school. 

“But,” she continues, “those rumors have stopped once rumors started spreading about  _ you and me _ . That we maybe getting back together, and now,” she nods over to disembodied sounds, “I think they may feel pretty convinced that the shit that comes out of their mouths is true.”

“That’s not fair,” I respond, feeling a sense of guilt for dragging her into this situation. Something she never asked for- something she stumbled into one day and because of her naturally caring demeanor, decided to help. “you even said you didn’t want to be this…”

Aerith waves me off with her free hand, “Cloud. I don’t. Trust me. But….what’s the worst outcome with rumors about us? We become the ridiculous on-again-off-again couple who never know what they want,” she squeezes my hand, her voice softens, “but for you...rumors like that can lead to violence. And...I don’t want either of you hurt.”

She releases my hand and immediately wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me into another one of her warm hugs. I return the gesture. I note that she smells like pomegranates. And that her embrace feels like a million daisies caressing my skin. Like springtime. And she doesn’t belong in this toxic basement with these devils. 

And she brings her lips to my ears again, and her voice prickles against my skin. “Sephiroth was right about one thing. You are the better person. You’re a good guy, Cloud, underneath everything you put up to guard yourself from others. And I always saw it in you, and I know Reno does too.” She pulls away, her face inches from mine, “And if it makes you feel better, I have my own selfish reasons for wanting to leave. So you’ll be helping me out too.”

I tilt my head, “Oh? You’re trying to get laid too?”

I expect a rough hit across the back of head, but instead she flashes a bashful smile as her cheeks turn as read as her dress. “No! But someone wants to come over and give me a New Years kiss and I ...kinda want him to, so. The quicker we leave, the quicker we get to enjoy the rest of our night. Sound good?”

I nod despite the guilt. But her smile is genuine. Warm like the sun. And I feel undeserving. But she takes my hand and links our fingers together and we head upstairs without another word to the group of enemies in the corner. Though I feel their eyes burn into us- like matches waiting to ignite. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally had to take a shower after writing that exchange with Sephiroth and Cloud/Aerith. he is this Frankenstein's monster of certain boys in my past. And , like, back then was different in terms of mentality so, forgive Aerith's reluctance on confirming or denying anything. It's not fun being black out and having what you did told AT you with no idea if it's true or not. BlaRhg. This chapter was a rough one for me.   
> Next chapter is going to make up for it, promise. I just didn't want to put the events of next chapter anywhere a chapter like this. 
> 
> Thank you once again for all the comments and kudos! <3


	21. What They Did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh baby when you cry  
> Your face is momentary  
> You hide your looks behind these scars  
> In hybrid moments  
> Give me a moment  
> -Hybrid Moments by The Mistfits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/ CW:  
> Implied sexual content  
> Implied abuse.

When Aerith’s dad pulls away from my house, the nerves erupt like a volcano. And quake within as if there's a fault line that threatens to crack. There’s this part that scolds my reaction. The part I’m supposed to play, teenage boy, they always want sex, right? And while that….maybe true and my right hand can attest to that idea, that also doesn’t mean I can’t be nervous. 

What if I suck? 

I remember all the things Reno said to me. That I don’t even know how to have sex with a guy. What if that’s true?

I’m trembling as I fish my keys out of my pocket. 

I can back out at any time. I know that. I can utter the “st” and everything will pause. But wouldn’t that just prove his original point? And what if that reopens old wounds that I’ve tried to help stitch up when allowed. And when we fooled around in the basement- and all the colors I felt when I received and gave in return- proved to be better than any high I’ve tried to chase. 

I shake as I finally get the key into the lock, and slam my head against the door with a loud huff. 

Why do I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time? In the classroom when he waltzed in with a smirk on his face and attitude in his voice. When he used those unrelenting blue eyes examined every bit of me until I felt completely exposed and naked before him; that I had to escape to the solitude of the bathroom to pull myself together. 

I can’t believe that was almost four months ago. 

It feels both too long and too soon. Like the highway that stretches the length of this island. 

And _ only  _ fourteen miles, end to end. 

_ Fuck _ . My heart tries to escape from my chest. 

And memories try to pray themselves from the lockbox in my brain. The first time I was presented with this  _ idea _ . With Zack. 

If I puke now, I can’t do it. Swallow that back. Lock up everything. Throw away the key. This isn't Zack. This is Reno.

_ “Boo!” _

The sound rattles my bones. My soul exits my body and I jump about ten feet in the air, stumbling back and tripping over a dead plant that’s been there since  _ last _ summer. 

“Oh, shit, sorry about that,” he tries to stifle a laugh. I scramble up and try to lean against the house like I, somehow,  _ meant _ to fall on my ass. Reno appears from the side gate, a huge snarky, smile upon his smooth face. His eyes like fire, that shine against the darkness of the nearly midnight sky. He’s still dressed in his NYE attire; black slacks, white button down shirt that might as well be completely unbutton, and a black suit jacket. 

And I feel the nerves melt away. 

“Did you jump over the fence wearing that?” I ask as he saunters over; his eyes scanning the length of my body like they did the first time we met. 

“Yeah, I’m pretty agile, yo,” he winks, “did you honestly go to a party dressed like  _ that?” _

I look down at my outfit. I definitely went under dressed compared to the other boys that lurked in Sephiroth’s basement, but like hell I was going to look like another one of his clones. I went with black jeans and black blazer over a band shirt. “What? It’s  _ Cannibal Corpse, _ ” I say, pulling down my shirt so he can get a better look at the artwork. 

“Are those...two skeletons...eating a woman?” 

“Yeah, it’s from their  _ Butchered at Birth _ album,” I shrug. He brings his eyes up and looks positively disgusted. 

“I don’t remember that CD in the case you gave me.”

“Oh right,” I laugh and run my fingers through my hair, embarrassed at my next admission, “So, I mean. I am really trying to get into them because Tifa decided she likes them- I think because Biggs is big into them. I’m trying but they aren’t really my thing. A little  _ too _ heavy. But I like their artwork.”

“Oh! So you’re a poser,” he chuckles.

I scoff back, “Nah, chill, I’m like mad goth, bro.”

“Oh yeah, so  _ goth _ .” He rolls his blue eyes, “Are they even a goth band? Do you even know what goth is?”

“They’re…” I ponder, “Death metal. So, close?”

He shakes his head and inches closer. Reaches under my blazer, his fingers gliding against my torso, and pulls the fabric away to get a better look. He tilts his head to the side like he’s analyzing every detail of the macabre image. “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about you cheating on me cause you look unapproachable as fuck.”

“And yet, people still approached me.”

“You’d think with your resting bitch face they’d know to back the fuck up.”

“Didn’t really stop you, did it?” I run my hands along his arms, stepping into his embrace.

He smirks, “Oh, well, I like a challenge.”

“I don’t think I put up that much of a fight, though.” And I didn’t. Not really. I built a wall with a flimsy foundation and let him tip it over with the slightest push. Maybe it was the curiosity? I knew I wanted to taste those lips the first time I saw them curve into a smile. And I thought about how his skin could possibly feel under my touch; and who knew he’d be so soft. All my vicious attempts to keep him away were weak at best. 

“Yeah well,” he shrugs with my arms draped over his shoulders as he pulls me impossibly close, “I’m just that good.”

He never loses that sinister look on his face. And under the darkness of my front porch, surrounded by blackened houses and covered by weeping trees, he presses his lips against mine for all the stars and moon to witness. And there’s a certain danger in kissing like this; exposed and out in the open. A line we’ve been teetering on for weeks. And I wish it wasn’t such a risk to be in this situation; with my hands now on his face and pulling him deeper into oblivion. 

But the threat of exposure exists; and the blistering winter wind that pricks our skin offers that jolt of a reminder. And I pull away first, with a groan that rumbles in his throat offering protest. 

And I forget why I was so nervous in the first place. 

“When are you parents coming home?” he whispers against my slightly parted lips.

“Not for a while; mom’s drunk, dad’s getting there. Last year they didn’t show up until 2 in the morning.”

“Nice,” he slips his hands into the back of my pockets; and I shudder against him. “You gonna invite me in or are we just going to stand here like a couple of assholes?”

“Well, you’re making it difficult to move attached like this.” I slip my hands from his face, allowing a few lingering moments, before reaching over and unlocking the door with a click that seems to echo along the empty street. He doesn’t immediately remove his hands, keeping me pressed against his toned body that I feel every exposed muscle I’m going to touch.

I push the door open, the house pitched black, when he finally removes his hands from my pockets- and I miss them already. We enter the empty abode, that we have all to ourselves for the foreseeable future. And this time it’s the anticipation that grips me as we walk up the stairs together, making small talk about our respective parties. Keeping our words short. Our minds drifting elsewhere. 

And I wonder if his heart is beating as fast as mine.

And if there’s a slight tremble that moves the tips of his fingers.

I swallow lumps that form in my throat. They hit my stomach. Explode like firecrackers. 

Reno takes my hand, linking our fingers together. We stop right in front of my door and he’s looking with several questions fighting for release. But instead he says: “Damn your hand is sweaty as fuck, babe.”

I stumble over my words like they’re boulders. He presses his back against my door with a smirk and pulls me closer. 

“F-fuck you,” I manage to sputter after my tongue betrays my brain. 

“I mean,” he releases my hand and cups my face, gazing into my eyes like he’s drunk off them, “That’s the plan, right?”

I can’t even answer- not with something vocal. Words are weak at this moment. I answer with my lips on his. But I still taste the nerves. The bitter stone wall. 

And it’s from him

And that relaxes me for some reason. 

We’re in this  _ together _ . 

I push the door open as he tangles his fingers in my hair, and we stagger into the safety of my bedroom, slamming the door with my body pushed up against it. I get my arms around his waist. Our bodies fuse together. I think of all the times we’ve felt like opposing magnets under oppressive eyes. But in the deep blue hue of my room, our hands can freely explore each other’s bodies-

And I realize we have entirely too many cloth barriers keeping me from him.

I rip my blazer off as he smiles against my lips, not daring to break the connection even as he gets his own jacket off. Immediately, yanks at the hem of my shirt and I swear I hear him mutter  _ not doing this with this shit on _ with breathless abandon that I have to chuckle. 

We’ve gotten this far before; his hands up my bare chest as I kiss along his jaw and shudder at the sounds that he makes from his throat. 

“Your shirts are too baggy,” he moans, “I forget how hot you are underneath.”

“Not trying to show anyone else the goods except you,” I whisper against his ear and I feel the laugh tremble within his chest. 

He pulls back with his hands at the hem of my jeans. Eyes half open with that smirk on his face. “You know, I listened to that CD you gave me over and over again.”

I’m wondering why this conversation needs to happen right now. “Word?”

“Word,” he chuckles, “and I really,” he unbuttons my pants, “really enjoyed,” a fire burns in me and I try to think of something else except the way his accent leaks from his throat and drenches every word- because I’m going to lose it. “I can not stress this enough.” And I know he’s fucking torturing me. “ _ Closer _ by Nine Inch Nails.” 

“Oh…” I groan like I’m in a dream, and then I feel the blood rush back up to the brain that rests within my skull, “OH!” My eyes wide; and I’m completely flustered and clouded that I don’t realize he’s pushed my pants completely down until he presses up against me. 

“Is that  _ what you want?” _ he purrs against my lips. “Cause I that’s what I want.”

My brain malfunctions. I know I’m blinking like there’s something in my eyes in order to reboot and he’s just staring at me. His eyes never so still. So confident. “You uhm,” I want to touch him so bad but I’m scared he’ll freak out. 

“I want,” he grabs my hands that I realize are tightened into fists. And I immediately relax under his touch. He brings them to his hips; and I have his silent permission to glide them up under his shirt. Finally touching his bare skin. He hisses between his teeth but doesn't stop. Or freeze. Or push me away. He takes another step closer than he’s ever been. “I want you on top,  _ pretty boy _ .”

“Are you sure?” I exhale. I feel like lava. Like liquid heat. The quelled panic takes a moment to build within me. 

“Don’t worry, I came prepared,” he smiles before planting a gentle kiss on my lips, “but I have rules.” He waits for me to nod, before continuing. He brings his finger to my mouth. “First, you gotta do  _ everything _ I say. Give me control.” I nod again like him possessed. “No, I need you to say you’re okay with that, babe.”

“That’s fine,” I trail my nails along his back; he shivers with a smile.

“Second rule,” he continues, “anything you are uncomfortable with, you say stop. Or no. Anything. I’ll stop. And before you have an anxiety attack, no I won’t be upset.” He kisses the side of my mouth, “I could never be upset with you.”

“Okay,” I agree.

“Last one, I promise.” and he chuckles when I sigh in protest. This time he pulls away further, but I rest my hands firmly on his hips. Now, his eyes shake. Like two little blue oceans in during a hurricane. “Please, don’t ask about my scars….”

His request almost takes me out of the haze. I recall the misguided game of strip beer pong. The concern in his face. No,  _ fear _ . That everyone would see what laid underneath the same button down that currently remains half buttoned on his body. 

“I won’t,” I assure him, “I promise.”

He takes a deep breath, “Sick.” And tears the shirt over his head. And I don’t even have time to admire his body, exposed for the first time in our relationship, because he has arms around me, our lips crash together like two wild tornadoes that demand to destroy everything. He pulls me towards my bed. Drags me on top of him. And I just relinquish any ounce of control. And let him whisper through harsh breaths everything he wants me to do to him. 

And it makes me want him more. 

No longer any barriers that keep us apart. Our minds meld into each other. 

It’s just me, and Reno, under the moonlight that seeps into the window- the only voyeur. The weeping willow dead from winter. 

And it’s no longer just colors that I feel. 

I taste his commands and they’re salty sweet. 

Like caramel and pretzels. 

But when he moans my name, it tastes just like the salvia.

And I crave it just like a drug; and whisper against his ear-

How I want us to explode into stardust; burn up in the sun.

And he tells me, through ravenous grunts from his throat, I need to start writing happy endings. 

And when I move in him- a moment of fear grips me as he sucks all the air from the room. We are in a bubble. No noise. Somewhere in the distance, the ball drops. I bury my head in his neck and take in his scent. Old spice and sweat and pumpkins. I run my hand over his chest; his breathing sharp like a knife at first, but cools as I glide my fingers across his abs. 

And then he laughs. 

He looks back at me. Animalistic gaze in deep blue eyes.

He tries to capture my lips, and I meet him halfway. 

And he exhales words coated with venom, “ _ there is no God.”  _

“ _ Now move.” _

He’s a fall sunrise.

And his sounds are my guitar strings making music.

And there’s no one else I would ever want to share this moment with. 

* * *

My eyelashes flutter against his back. Like the wings of a bird. 

We’re a mess of limbs. Like broken body parts. I’m not sure where he begins and I end. And maybe that’s the beauty of this kind of connection. I have one arm still around his chest where my nails run across his skin. His breathing light. And I’m relieved. 

I move up so I can bury my face in his mess of wet hair the shade of vermillion. I eye the red numbers on the cable box. 12:05 am. Time doesn’t seem real. As we both slowly come down from the euphoria that shudders through our nervous system. Our skin still vibrates. His touch like electricity when he captures my hand in his. 

“I wrote a poem about you,” I whisper in a dreamy haze.

“Oh?” he moves against me, eliciting a moan from my throat, “gonna share with the class?”

I smile into his hair, “Nah.”

“Wow,” he turns so he faces me; his eyes puffy and half shut. “What a tease.”

“Maybe one day,” I caress his cheek; and crease my eyebrows when I notice it’s wet.

“Right,” he smirks, “that’s  _ way too intimate _ .” 

I try to ignore the clutch in my chest, and force a laugh that gathers in my throat and dies upon my lips. And now that fuzz in my brain begins to melt like ice… “Are you o-”

Reno shoves his finger against my mouth, “No no. As long as we’re naked, I still call the shots.”

I frown, “I didn’t agree to that.”

“I told you, pretty boy, you’re shit at negotiating.” He pulls his eyes open and I forget my original question when I’m taken over by the waves of blues that sparkle against the moonlight. 

“Fine,” I grumble, “you win.”

He captures my lips in a slow kiss before dreadfully pulling away. “I  _ always _ win.” He props himself up on his elbow; his skin glows a angelic blue that contradicts the sinister glint always present in his eyes. The duality. Two halves competing for control. And when I sweep my eyes along his body, I finally notice the scars. 

Not just scars.

Old bruises that have yellowed through time. 

The scars are faded, but purplish parallel stripes up his torso. Three of them about the length of my index finger. 

And I try not to react in any way, rushing over them quickly before returning to his face. But when he leans to kiss me again, I taste the frustration. 

“Do you mind if I use your shower?” he asks coolly. 

“Yeah, of course.” Perks of having my own bathroom, I think. Just incase my parents have started their couple fight early and need to be escorted back home.

He rests his forehead on mine and I close my eyes to savor this moment. Sliding my hand along his torso, over those scars that seemed tattooed on his body. He doesn’t flinch but I regret the way his tenses under my touch. But he mutters with a raspy breath, “I love you, Cloud.”

And I can’t get enough of the way my name sounds when he says it. “I love you too, Reno.”

He pulls back, a sly smile on his face. “Then can I borrow some clothes?”

I groan, “Was this some elaborate plan to steal more of my clothes?”

“Yurp!”

He leaves the comfort of the bed to use my shower. I remain for a few more minutes, staring at the shadows that dance along the ceiling before the call of my nicotine craving pulls me from the comfort of filthy sheets. I find my pack safely in the pocket of my crumbled blazer. I change into basketball shorts and back in my _Cannibal_ _Corpse_ shirt. And I risk the lecture by smoking the cigarette around my room while I clean up after us and find clothes I’m willing to part with for Reno; as the sounds of the shower fill the room. 

But the dried tears on his cheek returns to my thoughts. 

I grab black pants and a white shirt for him. 

Can’t help walking to the have open door and straining my ears to hear a voice

Or a whimper, trying to hide underneath crashing water. He didn’t seem wrapped by the same fear that has gripped him before. But what if I misread him-

And I curse my brain for all it’s unrelenting doubts. 

I really hate this shit. It's like a constant headache that throbs in the center of my head. The sharp pain in my mouth from grinding my teeth. That falls to my chest and pokes at the vacant hole. And the longer this goes unchecked, the more likely I am to repeat past mistakes.

Like a routine.

That’s been quiet for months. 

The shower halts and I listen to the steam evaporate, and I swear I hear his own heavy breaths and a strong:  _ “I did it you fucks. You didn’t win.” _

And I feel wrong, like a spy. So I announce my presence with clearing my throat.

“Hey, I got you clothes.”

Less than a minute or so, his arm jets from the crack in the door. “Thanks, bro,” he drawls as he takes the outfit, “and you shouldn’t be smoking in your room.”

“I’m not naked, you can’t tell me what to do anymore,” I grin. 

“Bummer,” he huffs, “I liked having that power.”

The breeze from the open window chills the room and offers relief from the smoke. I sit on my bed as he exits the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his hair. Short red locks ripple like a river of red. 

And when the towel falls from his face, I can’t help but notice the slant in his eyebrows, that narrows his eyes towards the phantom in the room. And his face wilted like one of the flowers I’ve written about. 

“You wanna smoke a joint,” I offer, already grabbing the materials from my nightstand.

“Sounds good right about now,” he murmurs with a voice that sounds distant. 

I get to work. “Can I ask you a question?”

He sighs from across the room, as if expecting the question. “Yeah.”

“How often do you dye your hair,” I ask with a smirk when he looks at me perplexed, “The carpets don’t match the drapes.”

He snorts, “Didn’t figure it out last time you were down there?”

“I was a little  _ preoccupied _ .” 

He relaxes, leaning up against my wall, a soft more inviting smile resting on his face. And his eyes no longer look tormented by invisible enemies. “Hurry up.” He states, never actually answering the question I didn’t exactly mean to ask. 

I know the risk of both smoking weed and nicotine in my room, but the bitter winter night forces my hand and I push the window completely up so we can try to minimize the smell. He steals my favorite hoodie, on the pretense that it’s still too cold. But I know what he’s trying to do and attempt, fruitlessly, to convince him to take the red hoodie I never wear; but he’s convincing, stubborn, and refuses to budge. And he looks too good in the fitted black fabric to continue the argument. We crawl on the bed together, sitting across from each other. I bring my guitar onto the bed and he jokes about me serenading him- which I decline.  _ Too intimate _ , as if we weren’t naked writhing messes moments ago.

But sharing my voice and my writing is a different type of intimacy. Needs a different level of trust. 

We pass the joint back and forth- and when my hands are free I strum with a lazy hand some of the songs I put on his CD to see if he can guess them. But he looks out the window; the moon reflecting his eyes like a mirror. 

He lets out a heavy exhale, his breath hanging in the air as it drifts into the abyss. 

“I saw my ex while I was in Tennessee,” he says with a sudden blank tone that my fingers immediately halt all strumming right between the second verse for  _ Hybrid Moments _ by the Misfits. I dart my eyes to him; and he remains frozen, almost like a statue. 

“How, uh...did it go?” I rattled with caution. 

He took another hit before he continued, “I was showin’ Rude around. We were at the mall when I saw him. He ignored me, at first. Which was fine by me.” But the cut in his tone suggested otherwise. And I felt a part of my heart break for him. “Saw him again at  _ Spankies _ . He was with a girl but for some reason decided that it was a good time to approach me...”

“What happened?” I inquire after he took a pause. He curls his lips into a painful smile, riddled with hurt. 

“He asked about New York. If I was seeing anyone,” he looks at me, “I said yeah. That I have a boyfriend and how amazing it's been.” He shakes his head as he returns his gaze to the outside, “he told me he still thought about me. And I told him that next time he does, to do me a favor, and stab himself in the dick.”

His laugh sounds like razor blades and I cringe. “Damn. That’s uh,” I intended to say harsh. But the look in his eyes dared me to say anything. And I finally remember how abusive his ex was, and properly staple my mouth shut and return to strumming my guitar quietly. 

A deafening pause hangs in the room. 

And then he answers a question that lived in my brain for months. “He outed me to my parents,” he finally says and I feel a heavy weight lift off his shoulders. “And they  _ did not handle that shit well _ .” 

The scars on his body. And I feel like an idiot that I never saw it before- or I did and just buried my concern along with everything else. “Did you...confront him about that?”

He violently rips out a cigarette from his pack, and everything he says sounds as poison as what lives in that stick. “Yeah, and you know what this fucking shithead said to me? He goes ‘I was trying to save your soul.’ So,” he takes a drag, “I punched him in the jaw.”

“Woah…”

“That’s the only appropriate response to that statement,” he sighs, “though now I can’t go to  _ Spankies _ anymore.” He frowns. 

“So, your parents know you’re gay?” I feel like everything out of my mouth is a grenade.

“They think I’m ‘cured’,” he uses air quotes again, “and I’m fine with them believing that until I don’t need them anymore. Eighteen or when I go to college.”

“What about after that?”

A long pause from him. I see his eyes dart around the empty street. And I feel bad for even asking such a stupid question. “I…” his voice cracks and swallows me whole. “Just wish they’d be okay with it. And maybe I’ll achieve something great and it’ll...make up for being gay? Like, if I get into a good college? Or maybe get a scholarship somewhere. Maybe they’ll be proud of me one day.”  _ And who doesn’t want their parents to be proud of them... _ I think. “But at the same time...I really fucking hate them. So much. It shouldn’t matter who I’m with- but it does. And maybe it always will.

“Sometimes I want to run away. But my own selfishness gets in the way. And I know they do all this shit- the car, and the clothes, and all the money- just to bribe me into submission. Makes me hate myself more than I could ever hate them.”

My heart seizes at his confession. He always questioned my happiness; never for a second did I question his. I remove my guitar from my lap so I can inch closer to him. My hair tangles from the wind that leaks through the window; and he side eyes me. I see them brim with wet tears he refuses to allow fall. His whole body tenses when I approach. But I stop just before my thighs can brush up against his leg. 

Then he looks away and shakes his head with an inappropriate laugh. “What a bummer thing to talk about after we just fucked for the first time,” he grumbles. 

And I flinch at the vulgarity, “Sorry…”

“The fuck you sorry for, babe? Ain’t you cryin’ about your life.”

“For once,” I mumble, bringing my eyes to my lap. 

He slaps my arm, “I’d rather you cry to me about your life,” then he takes my hand, resting it on his lap and grazes my scars like I did to him. “I don’t like the alternative.”

“You should feel like you can cry to me about your life, too,” I press. 

“Yeah I know,” he sighs, “I just wish I didn’t have anything to cry about.”

“Heh,” I watch as he glides his fingers along my arm, and say bitterly “ _ boys don’t cry _ .”

“Yeah,” he agrees with the same edge to his voice, “we just punch walls.”

“Or shitty ex-boyfriends.”

He releases my hand and brings his hand to his face, leaning against the sill. “Yeah, more punchin’, less cryin’.” 

And I hate how his voice completely betrays him and splinters against the winter night. I hate how his shoulders slouch. And how I know he’s hiding that his eyes have unleashed the waterfall of tears that he’s kept locked up. And that he can’t show me how he’s family has broken him. 

So, I return a favor he offered a week ago. And silently wrap my arms around him. And don’t say anything when he shatters against me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your continued support and comments! I hope this chapter lives up to some expectations!!


	22. Wishes of the Manipulator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can have my isolation  
> You can have the hate that it brings  
> You can have my absence of faith  
> You can have my everything  
> -"Closer" by Nine Inch Nails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW:  
> -Implied sexual content  
> -Drug abuse references  
> -Panic attack  
> -Suicide Reference

Reno’s parents planned a trip to Disney World for Martin Luther King Jr weekend. 

And also decided Reno wouldn’t be joining them. Instead, he was to be sent to Rude’s house for the weekend. A fact that caused him to bristle with a rage I hadn’t entirely expected. One that manifested in a cussing match with his mother over the phone in the school's bathroom. And I wasn’t sure if it was more because he really,  _ really _ , wanted to meet Mickey Mouse or if this was another example of his parents treating him like a pariah. 

But I quelled his rage when I suggested he just stay at my house for the weekend instead.

Have Rude cover for him. 

My parents basically wraiths and hardly notice me- let alone Reno who has all but moved in completely. And considering Rude’s dad is a corporate lawyer and his mom is a financial advisor- and tax season rapidly approaches- they wouldn’t notice a certain red-head missing from their house. 

His eyes lit up when the idea left my lips. “That’s  _ almost _ better than Disney.”

And I laughed, “I’ll make my parents take me to Disney for my birthday and bring you.”

For extra security, however, I did run the idea past my parents over dinner. My mom lucid enough to keep up with the conversation- though I could tell her focus was more on keeping her hands steady on the table- and she actually remembered Reno from decorating the tree with us on Black Friday. My dad seemed sceptical, at first. Which flushed my cheeks and I tried to ignore the burning concern in the back of my head- the rumors Aerith had told me about. He asked a bunch of fair questions like:

“Why aren’t they taking him?”

“He doesn’t have anywhere else to go?”

“Are his parents okay with him staying with us?”

To which I boldly responded:

“His parents suck.”

“No he doesn’t- they were going to ship him back to Tennessee”

“Do you want to call and ask?”

I bluffed the last one. With a pointed stare at my father as I tapped my plate with my fork- unleashing several dings that made my mother twitch until she snapped. 

“Jesus Christ, Bastian, just let the poor kid stay with us for a few days? Clearly his parents are cunts.”

“Claudia, language!”

And that’s all it took for the fight to start. 

Part of me concerned my parents wouldn’t be able to keep their toxic relationship on the downlow while Reno was over; but I know my dad rather fake a business trip for four days than fight in front of a guest. So, worst case, I lose a dad for a few days but gain a boyfriend in my bed. 

Worth it. 

Even when he showed up at my house at five in the morning on Friday before school, with his eyes flared with the same anger that’s been fluctuating for the last two weeks. Apparently, they kicked him out when the taxi showed up to take them to the airport. Locked the doors. Took both his car keys and house keys. Left him on the stoop with instructions to walk to Rude’s. 

He flung his bag across the room when he walked into my bedroom and I flinched when it hit the wall. He was crossed with a madman that laughed at his own anger, and a wounded child. 

“I’m going to have so much fucking sex this weekend,” he growled, “and not go to fucking Church on Sunday.”

I sat on my bed, still half asleep, and nodded along to whatever came out of his mouth. “I’m, like, super into everything you’re saying, but, uh, we have almost two hours before we need to wake up to get to school- and my parents are probably getting ready to exist- so maybe you’ll settle for laying in bed for now?”

He laid on my chest, despite being completely in his uniform already, and I ran my fingers through his hair until I felt his body relax. He asked his own valid question: 

“Will your parents think it’s weird that I'm sleeping in your bed?”

“Maybe if they catch us like this.” he tensed again and I mentally slapped my head. “They won’t, they don’t come in here anymore after they caught me with my hand in my pants.” He chuckled softly against my neck. “Besides,” I continued despite my eyes falling shut, “all my guy friends sleep in my bed. Cid usually spoons me in his sleep.”

“I swear that guy has a crush on you.”

“If he was-maybe-five percent gay, we would definitely be dating.”

This time, he actually whacked me on the forehead.

I understood his concern, but my parents barely made an effort to check on us the first night. And we spent the time playing video games, so even if they happened to walk past my room, all they heard were the sounds of Mario Kart, and Reno’s shouts that I’m cheating at the game. And once they went to bed, they might as well have evaporated into the walls of the house. 

They heard nothing. 

And with Saturday, upon us, they leave the house bright and early. Dropping off 100 dollars in my hand as they walk out the door; and they won’t be seen again until Sunday. My dad makes a half assed attempt to establish rules. “No orgies,” he snickers like a school boy.

Reno and I exchange a look before returning our teenage, bored, glances at him. “Deal.”

They are barely out of the driveway before he pins me under him. 

After we finish exploring our bodies, in ways that don’t just need to be sex, we unwind with our cigarettes. I’m up against the wall, my guitar over my lap while he leans over the window sill, his arm dangling out the window as he exhales smoke towards the trees that block the view of the world. Dressed in just our boxers; him getting more comfortable with relaxing without his shirt on in front of me. And I admire his body- scars and all. Lean but muscular. Sculpted arms, and toned legs that currently hide underneath a thin blanket. His abs like stone when I run my hands over them; my current obsession when I have him in any compromising position. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he scolds, “I need a break; fuck.”

I laugh and look away, “I could always take one for the team.”

“Oh?” he smirks, “someone wants to try something new?”

I strum my guitar and it rumbles against my chest. And I have to shift myself because of this conversation. “Maybe.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes back to the outside world, “call me when that changes to a yes.” He feigns frustration, but I know he’s fine from the dreamy look on his face. Like he’s both here, and far away, existing in two worlds at once. 

I enjoy the silences we share after our intimate moments. 

But I wonder how it’s possible to be this in love with someone after such a short amount of time. And I know he warned me about planning our life together. But I can’t help the way my mind drifts away. 

I mindlessly pluck my guitar to  _ I Walk The Line _ , while I think of possible futures, when I hear him softly sing. 

_ “ _ _ I find it very, very easy to be true. I find myself alone when each day is through. Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you. Because you're mine.I walk the line.” _ And his voice is rough, his accent prominent; not a voice for singing, but for screaming. And it’s possible the most beautiful sound I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing. 

“You like Johnny Cash?” I question as I continue to play. He flinches at my voice, as I snapped him out of his trance, and throws me a look that silently asks if I’m an idiot. 

“Of course, I’m from the South,” he responds. “I was surprised that  _ you  _ liked him when I saw you added him to the CD.”

“He’s awesome,” I agree. He stares out the window, with his cigarette between his lips, and sun against his face. And I notice he swallows a lump in his throat; and maybe I shouldn’t have alerted him to my listening. So I continue, dropping my voice to the right tune.

_ “As sure as night is dark and day is light, I keep you on my mind both day and night. And happiness I've known proves that it's right. Because you're mine, I walk the line,”  _ I sing. And from my peripheral, I see him smile against the Marlboro; his face red like his hair, which moves like flames against the wind. And he tries to hide behind his hand running through those strands. 

“He begs me to sing,” I say as I continue to play, “then gets all embarrassed when I do.”

“Fuck you,” he snickers. 

“Later, we got two more verses.” I clear my throat, “ _ You've got a way to keep me on your side. You give me 'cause for love that I can't hide. For you I know I'd even try to turn the tide. Because you're mine, I walk the line.” _

I try to do the humming noise from my throat, and his laughter fills the room. Not a mocking laugh; subtle. And warm. Like the springtime. He extinguishes the cigarette in my astray. “This last part is my favorite,” he admits. 

“I’ll try to do it justice then,” I joke. I pretend to get serious and close my eyes and try to ignore the bed sinking next to me as if he’s crawling closer. Focusing on the cords I create along the neck of the guitar. And the strumming. And my own voice. “ _ I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.”  _ I feel his lips on my neck before he breathes the words in my ear along with me, “ _ I keep my eyes wide open all the time. I keep the ends out for the tie that binds. Because you're mine. I walk the line.” _

He captures my lips, nearly knocking my guitar out of my arms to replace it with himself. I pull back quickly, to put the old acoustic somewhere safe, “Hey, don’t hurt Sheila.”

“Stupid name for a guitar,” he kisses me again, cupping my face to pull me closer and climbs onto my lap. “You know, you weren’t kiddin’ when you said you could do more than talk shit with this mouth.”

I smirk against his lips, “have I let you down, yet?” 

“Not yet,” he whispers. Running his fingers down my face, neck, and to the chain he bought me for Christmas. He takes it in his hand, “Has anyone asked about this?”

“No,” I assure him, “No one has even said anything about it.”

“Ya’ll observant up here,” he mocks, tracing his fingers along the barbed wire. 

“Usually everyone’s entirely too observant of other people's shit,” I grumble, “a year ago some kids from school created a whole Myspace page callin out everyone in the class.” I roll my eyes at the memory. “I think they called themselves ‘Fireman O’Tool.’”

“That’s a fucking stupid name.”

“Oh yeah. The whole thing was stupid. They wrote a blog post for almost every person in our class. Called me out for being,” I pause to cringe, “a drug dealer and a Sephiroth puppet.” My stomach drops, eyes fall away from his face that seems more curious than judgmental. “Also said I cheated on Aerith- which I never did. But that was a fight.” I try to recall the other blog posts. Memories clouded from entirely too many drugs. Too much alcohol. Even too many punches to my face during that time. 

When Fireman O’Tool showed up, everyone became a suspect.

And for some reason, people thought I would hide behind a fake profile like a bitch. 

“Did they ever find out who did it?” 

I shook my head, “No. Everyone was pretty much called out. My friends, Seph’s friends, even Rufus and his buddies. Fucking, poor Reeve, had a paragraph just calling him a-” I pause our eyes meet for a minute. I don’t even have to say it. “Anyway. It was about two weeks and then the whole thing got shut down by the school because of the fighting. I forgot that even happened until now.” 

He shifts on my lap and I notice his face subtly twitches. “Sounds like a bunch of idiots with too much time on their hands.”

“Welcome to Staten Island.” 

Reno crawls off my lap. Instead, curling next to me, his head against my shoulder as I bring my arm around him. We tangle in each others embrace, legs over legs, his hand gliding along my chest. I close my eyes to listen to his breathing- soft, even- and rest my face on top of his mess of hair. And it smells like fresh dye that stings. Howling wind grazes against the window. Almost like a ghoul threatening to shatter the perfect silence that envelops the room. And I find myself drifting back to sleep, admittingly having not slept much during the night. 

His voice breaks first, “Do you ever think of leaving?”

My eyes flutter open as I weigh my answer. “All the time.”

“Where do you want to go?” 

“Never thought about it. Didn’t...exactly plan on leaving here alive,” I admit. And his body goes rigid. 

He pushes himself up, arms on either side of me, and he looks at me intently. “Still have that plan?”

“No,” I run my fingers across his face. I resent his concern. And I hate that it’s my knee-jerk reaction. I sigh and try to avoid his eyes, looking at the ceiling. Finding something I can say. A lie. That will get him to stop giving me this eternal suspicious gaze. “Like I said, before. My brain is a bad friend that whispers negative thoughts sometimes. And I just try my hardest to ignore them. And lately it’s been easier.”

“Are you sure?” He practically climbs on top of me, his forehead on mine, forcing me to look directly into his eyes- where I finally notice the tiniest hints of green freckled along his iris’. And I can’t help but smile at how ridiculous he looks right now. Completely forcing a stern glare. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. I would tell you, I promise.” I smile. “And I have, actually, been thinking about my future.”

“Oh? Is that so? What does Cloud want to do when he grows up?” 

“Well. First I would move to Brooklyn-”

“Wow, so far,” he mumbles sarcastically. 

“Do you want to hear or not?” he nods with our head still connected and I roll my eyes at him. “Okay so, Brooklyn. Maybe Williamsburg or Park Slope. And I would get a dog.”

“What kind?”

“Pitbull. Gray pitbull named Fenrir. And maybe I’ll start a band or write a book. But I haven’t really thought about what I want to  _ be _ when I grow up..”

“Maybe be a sugar baby? You got the looks.” He smirks. 

I laugh against his lips, “You mean get to sit home all day, looking hot, and getting paid. I can probably do that.”

“You gotta put out though. That’s the trade off.”

“Hm,” I close my eyes to think, “as long as my sugar daddy’s hot, I think I’d be okay with that.” I open my eyes as he pulls back, approving nod at my future. “So what do you want to do then?”

“Well  _ now _ ,” he grins, “Find a way to make a shit ton of money to afford an apartment in Brooklyn, a dog, and my hot blonde boyfriend.”

“Oh?” I muse, “I’m extremely high maintenance. You’re going to have to sell your soul to make that kind of money.”

“Psh, say no more.” He presses a firm kiss on my lips. 

My chest flutters. Like broken petals. Dancing in the wind.

He broke his own rule.  _ Plan our entire future _ . 

And maybe it was half hearted joking. And I’m not really intending on becoming a sugar baby. But it’s hard not to find him serious when he takes my face in his hands. 

And whispers how much he loves me.

For a moment, the only future I want is the one with him. 

My phone falls off the nightstand. And we pull away from each other, confused. I hear it vibrating like an angry robot on my floor. I grumble as I move him away, despite the growl of protest, and go to claim the offending technology. 

“You’re gonna answer that shit?” he huffs, flopping on his back.

“It could be my parents-” I stop short when I see the name on the screen.  _ Sephiroth _ . I let the phone rumble in my hands until “missed call” pops up. I flip it open only to be met with 5 text messages and now two missed calls. Too engrossed with Reno to notice that my hazel eyed friend has been trying to reach me. The texts range from “bitch.” “homo” “Answer your phone” “asshole.” and finally, “stop being a pussy.” And each word causes my stomach to drop until I feel empty.

Then it begins its vicious assault once again. 

“Do  _ not _ answer that,” Reno warns from behind me. 

“He’s just gonna keep calling,” I mumble. And the angry sigh from his throat feels like a tragedy. I hit answer. “What?”

“ _ What _ ?” Sephiroth snaps on the other end, “The fuck are you doing? Jerking off?”

“No,” I murmur. 

“Well what the fuck are you doing? I’ve been calling you for a half hour.”

“Just chilling.”

“With who?” His tone demanding. 

“Reno.” And I slap myself on the head as soon as his name leaves my lips. My boyfriend moves in front of me to give me the most vexed look I’ve seen from him. Mouthing  _ are you fucking insane _ ?

“The fuck is that prick doin’ over there?”

“We’re just playing video games,” every word feels painful. Paired with Reno’s sarcastic eye rolls. 

“Well let me in! I’m at the side door.”

“Der,” I try to find some kind of excuse to get him to leave. But nothing. Nothing comes to mind. Without being suspicious. Reno just shakes his head at me, full of disappointment. 

And Sephiroth loses his patience. “You getting your dick sucked or something? Hurry up!” And he hangs up. 

I flip the phone shut, biting my lip and dreading the thought of having to look at Reno. A jarring contrast from the previous few minutes, where I would give anything to stare into his eyes for eternity. But he doesn’t give me a chance to hide. Coming off the bed and standing in front of me, eyes narrow into two blue slits that press directly into me, and his mouth curved into a scowl that crushes me. 

“Are you fucking serious, right now?” he hisses. 

I throw my hands into the air, “Babe, he would keep harassing me.”

“God forbid you  _ lie _ right?” And I know what he means. I didn’t have to tell Sephiroth about Reno being here, at almost noon. Or that I was even home. I run through the list of lies and wonder why my brain went blank at the worst moment. 

“I’m...sorry,” I plead. He just shakes his head again with a bitter smile and starts putting on the rest of his clothes. “You’re...not leaving, right?” 

He gets his jeans and long sleeve on, sighing with a vicious tone. “No. I just didn’t expect to have to deal with this fucker.”

I feel the whispers in the back of my head. Again. And my eyes wilt to my hands; I can’t watch him be angry at me for my weak will. It reminds me of the times he needed to drag me from a house because I was too drunk. 

And my own torn voice grows louder in my mind. I try to think of something to lighten the mood. “If it makes you feel better…” I start, “Aerith had to deal with the same shit.”

“Oh yes, Cloud, keep diggin’ that hole,” he fumes. “Hurry up before he starts asking more questions we don’t have fucking answers to.” 

He exits my room, slamming the door behind him. 

And I wish I could become the insect I know I am. 

* * *

Reno already starts setting up the Xbox, never acknowledging me as I walk past him to the side entrance where Sephiroth waits.

I remember a time I would be excited to see my best friend. 

Even suggesting he’s a friend seems wrong these days. 

I open the door and he already has a smirk on his face. “Bout time.” He enters the basement, taking inventory of the scene like he’s searching for something. His hazel eyes resting on Reno, now with his feet on my coffee table and controller clutched in his hand. “What took you guys so long?”

While I changed, I rehearsed all the answers I would need to all his questions:“We were playing  _ Super Smash Brothers _ upstairs. I wanted to finish kicking his ass first.”

“I see,” he nods his head, and flops on the broken leather recliner that rests adjacent to the couch. “What are you doing now? Playing  _ Gaylo _ .” He chuckles at his own joke. 

I roll my eyes and take a seat on the couch as far away from Reno as possible. “Yeah, you in?”

“Nah,” he folds his hands onto his stomach and props his own feet on my table- and I wonder who taught these boys manners- and directs his gaze onto the red-head; who remains focused on the television. “Didn’t realize you two were so  _ close _ .”

“Our backyards connect,” I respond with the personality of an empty glass. “We play video games a lot.”

“At noon?” he interrogates.

“You’re here at noon,” Reno bites back this time. Eyes glued to the screen.

I side-eye Sephiroth. He sits up; his smooth face curved with a sinister look. His grin alarming. Like he’s a child with a magnifying glass and the power of the sun setting fire to ants. 

“Well this is my second home. I can come and go as I please.” 

“You haven’t been here in months,” I counter. 

“Aw, did you miss me, Cloud?”

I pause until the game loads, Sephiroth’s eyes planted on me waiting for my response. “Not really.”

Reno smiles next to me while Sephiroth grimaces. And while it felt good to get under his skin, my palms are sweating as if anticipating the inevitable attack. But the silver-haired boy turns his attention to Reno; bored with me, now. 

“Rufus would be tight if he knew you were hanging around this one.” He nods towards me. The sound of his name sets both of us on edge. Reno never mentions his friend in my presence, and I honor that with keeping my own mouth shut.

But Reno just offers a bored sigh, “Rufus has better things to worry about than who I hang out with.”

“Like who his girl’s spreadin’ her legs for?” Seph forces a laugh like bait which neither of us take. And even with focusing on the game, I see the way his eyes move between the two of us. Examining. And I feel crushed under his glare. Like my face will betray the both of us. “Heard a rumor you tapped that over the summer.”

Reno snorts, “She wishes.”

“Right,” he slouches in his seat, “I actually heard you’re seein’ Elena. Or at least you  _ were _ .”

“I don’t fuck with bitches at that school. They’re too much drama.” Reno’s words sound hollow. But the subtle changes in his expressions. The way his face stiffens. His tongue running over his teeth like he’s trying to fix that mask of misogyny we wear to blend with the rest of the boys at our school. 

“So did you come all this way just to find out who Reno’s fuckin’” I snap with a little too much force and I see the double edge meaning to that statement. And Reno cringes. 

And the sound from Sephiroth’s mouth, a low menacing laugh, has the hairs on my neck standing. Like he’s right behind me. “Didn’t even know he was here. I can’t come chill with my best friend anymore,” he puts his hands to his heart and melts his face into a wounded frown. “I’m hurt.”

“Oh, I’m your best friend again?” I roll my eyes. 

“Yes  _ and- _ ”

“There’s the AND.” I try shooting at Reno’s character but he manages to get away. My mind not focused. 

“AND maybe you’d want to smoke. Fuck, you’re being a bitch,” he pulls out an eighth of weed from his jacket pocket, “See. And I’ll even smoke up your b-” he lingers on that b, right as a sniper bullet rips through the air and my character’s head explodes. “Bestest buddy over there.” 

Reno and I exchange a blank look. But I can sense the turmoil that rakes through him. He mouths  _ boom headshot _ at me before turning back to the game. I shift in my seat, and look at Sephiroth who seems entirely too entertained right now, still holding the bag of green. 

“So,” I address Seph, “your parents are home and no one else is around for you to smoke.”

“Fuck you,” he barks, “Shit Cloud. Do you want to get high or not?”

“I mean,  _ yeah,”  _ I respond. 

He looks at Reno, “You in, kid.”

Reno nods without offering him a look. “Yurp.”

He crosses past us, to the desk on the other end of the room, to roll the blunt. And his presence makes me sick.

This basement used to be a sanctuary for us. A place to be our complete, whole selves. And I broke a rule we never verbally established. And I welcomed an interloper. An infiltrator. Watching every move we make like he already concluded what is really happening here. And I should have known. From previous lingering looks I’ve caught in my direction, during more turbulent times. And I wonder if memory loss, or willful ignorance, is a side effect of dropping off my medication without proper guidance. 

Reno and I continue our massacre. I’m letting him get shots on me as some kind of warped penance; but he remains unsatisfied. Slouching in his seat, throwing me unhappy looks every time his character kills me. And even Sephiroth comments on the tense silence in the room. 

“This is the quietest game of  _ Halo _ ever. Usually Cloud punches people in the face for getting that many kills on him.”

And I grip my controller like I want to snap it in half.

I run Reno’s character over with the Warthog. 

“You cocksucker,” he growls. And Seph chuckles.

The water in my lungs, that I haven’t felt in weeks, returns. And I know I’m not really drowning. But everything feels tight. A struggle. I wonder if I’ve always been this way around him. 

I’m the one who suggests we go outside to smoke. Seph complains about the cold, but I brush him off. Put my foot down. And he begrudgingly accepts despite childish protests.

And the turbulent wind feels like snow. 

But opens my chest and I can breath again. 

We take our seats around a small rusted glass table. Seph and I across from each other and Reno in the middle, forced to stare at the blackened windows of his house. Sephiroth sparks the blunt, and when the weed floats into my lungs, this almost seems worth the trouble. Seph has the hook up and Reno choking on it solidifies that thought.

“So, Sinclair, heard you were thinking of playing baseball this season,” Seph opens the conversation. 

“That’s the plan,” Reno responds. And I know how important baseball is to him. How he’s missed playing; and that it’s second only to me, which is flattering. But I also know how viciously Sephiroth tries to protect his status on the team. 

“What position?” He continues to interrogate. 

“Short stop.” 

“What was your batting average last year?”

Reno pauses. I notice the flash of pain in his blues. “I didn’t play last year….car accident. Broke my arm in two places.” 

Sephiroth spills a vicious laugh from his throat. “Think you can play after being out an entire season?”

“Well I started varsity in Freshman year,” Reno counters with minimal effort, not even looking at the silver-haired boy. 

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t gotta prove anything to you,” he shrugs, “Just gotta show my stuff to the coach.”

“Genesis is the captain. Gotta show your stuff to him too.”

I interject, “Since when?” Knowing full well the coach has the final say in anything involving the sport. 

“Since Genesis uncle is the coach.” Seph smirks. 

I roll my eyes, “Of fucking course. Genesis can’t hit his way out of a fucking paper bag.”

“Big talk for someone who freaks out when a ball comes flying at his face,” he mocks and my cheeks burn. He turns back to Reno, “this pussy can’t even hit a Tee ball.”

Reno tried playing baseball with me- I successfully embarrassed myself plenty in front of him and he laughed at my poor attempt at the sport. But with Seph’s comment he merely shrugs boredly and comes to my defense. “Some people ain’t into sports.”

And I try to hide the smile with the blunt. But I notice Sephiroth lips pull into a grin, looking like a shark circling prey. “Oh, that’s adorable.”

“What?” I ask

He shifts to me, eyes bold and amused. “How he defends his boyfriend.”

I’m back underwater. All sound disappears. But I remain locked on Sephiroth. Eyes tense. Trying to see if he’s fucking with me or serious with that statement. The thing about our group, it’s not uncommon to call each other boyfriends- followed by a laugh. Cid calls me his boyfriend. I’ve been called Sephiroth’s boy toy for years. It’s brushed off as quickly as it appears. 

But he doesn’t laugh. 

And I know this is too long of a pause to be acceptable. 

“Aww,” to my surprise, Reno breaks the tension and runs his foot over Sephiroth’s leg, “Someone a little jealous?” He winks at him and laughs as if he’s in on the joke. 

“Easy there, fucker.” Seph flinches. His eyebrows knit together, now looking between us confused. 

I follow Reno’s lead, “Don’t worry Seph, you’re still my number one gal.” And lean over to touch his knee.

He jumps back, causing both the red-head and I to erupt in a mocking laughter that breaks down his mask and he’s flustered. I see the crimson look in his eyes. And I know him. He brims with rage for us not playing along with his game: getting under our skin like a fly. 

Sephiroth tries to regain his control, shifting in his seat and taking the blunt I pass to him- my lips curved into a smirk. “Hn.” he takes a hit and his skin returns to snow. “You know there’s a party tonight.” He nods over to Reno, eyes planted on me. “Did your boy mention that yet?”

I look over at Reno, not dropping my own guard. Reno takes the blunt from Sephiroth and narrows his own baby blues at him. “Yeah, I’ve been informed that Angeal is having a party. Not my scene.”

“Oh? Lots of chicks go there.” . 

“Yeah, to get dumb high on xannie sticks and pass out in their drinks,” Reno denounces, “I’m good. I want my girls conscious when I give them the D.”

I would have chuckled at Reno’s almost pathetic attempt of acting like a douchebag, if a lightbulb hadn’t exploded in my head. I lose the smile. I narrow my eyes. I start to realize what’s actually going on from the devilish look on the boy’s face who occupies the seat across from me- who suddenly, and without provocation, appeared on my side door on a random Saturday afternoon. We haven’t spoken since New Years when I called him out. Our rides to school don’t count; silence envelops the car everytime I enter. The music the only sound. Stiff stares towards the destination. 

Then I return home with my boyfriend and he never appears in my thoughts for the rest of the day. And I’m sure the feeling is mutual. 

I should have listened to Reno and not answer the fucking phone. 

Sephiroth has the upper hand, and the smirk. “Hey, buddy. I’m a bit parched. Could you get me something to drink?”

I pause for a second. Scraping my brain for any kind of plan to get him out. But I’m seized by this other sensation. Curiosity? Or stupidity? “Yeah, sure,  _ buddy _ ,” I turn to Reno- who hasn’t caught on, and now stares at his phone with his auburn eyebrows knit together, “You want anything.”

He darts his eyes for a second and mumbles, “Water’s fine.”

I enter my kitchen through the sliding glass door, slamming it shut with such force, the glass portraits rattle. Fitting. I notice my hand slightly trembles when I open the door to the fridge- try to rationalize it’s the lack of food in my stomach. But I feel claws digging in my brain, re-opening those cuts I’m cemented shut. And the headache hits first. Like a sword through my forehead. I curse myself. That any logical thread I’ve sewed within me through years of therapy are now torn and frayed. And I’m left unraveling. And I can’t decide if it’s the implications coming from Sephiroth’s eyes when he looks between Reno and I, or announcement of a party that has me gripped with panic. 

I grab three bottles of water, and kick the door shut.

And jump when Sephiroth appears behind the door, still with that smile and insidious glint in his hazel eyes. 

“Thought you could use some help.” 

“I’m fine.” I respond and try to move around him, but he places his hand on my shoulder and I freeze in my spot. 

“You’re coming tonight, right?” 

“Do I have to?” I ask. And I hear how pathetic I sound. Like when I was thirteen. He and his camp buddies made me go into the “haunted cabin” and locked me in there- all night.

“Tifa and her low life friends are coming.” His voice bristles like his words are covered by spikes. 

“They’re your friends too, asshole,” I snap back, “Cid and Barret.”

He doesn’t seem phased, and all but confirms his animosity towards them which I’ve noticed brewing for months. “Heh. I guess,” he’s dismissive and continues, “And Aerith, I heard. Surprise you didn’t.”

I know it looks bad that the girl I’m supposed to be pining for, if the rumors are true, attends a party and I have no interest in going. Electing to stay behind with a boy. But I shrug, “Aerith can do whatever she wants.”

He props his arm against the fridge to lean into me; his eyes set on my small form like two green lasers. And I hate that I’ll never be as tall as him. Forced to spend my life being looked down on. All I have going for me is the bored look in my eyes. The stone face. My lips as neutral as possible to not give away the alarms that are triggered when he gives me that glare. 

Like he’s already won this fight. “So, you got  _ anything  _ to contribute to the festivities?” He’s already decided I’m going. And he’s already decided why. And he knows entirely too much. 

So I laugh at him. “Now I get why you’re here.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he scowls. 

“Where’s my medication?” I accuse trying to latch on to whatever control I have in this. 

He scowls, “What medication?”

“I had a half bottle of xanax in my room. It’s gone now.”

“Why do you care? I thought you didn’t need that anymore?” He stands straight, shoulders back, looking like the Golitah to my David. “Right? That’s what you told me. That you weren’t fucking crazy anymore.” 

A memory hits me over the head like a metal bat. When he found the first batch of medication. Shook the pills. Smirking.  _ You some pussy?  _ The laugh.  _ Why do you need these? You crazy or something _ ? G _ onna shoot up a school _ ? Every word a match against gasoline. And I hadn’t felt that inadequate since I left the hospital. With two white bandages. 

Bile lurches from my stomach. 

He cocks his head to the side, “Or not? Still crying in corners over nothing, Cloud?”

I swallow back the venom that burns my throat and muster up the most vicious tone I can, “Fuck you. I know you took it.”

And he shrugs, never losing the smile, but swerves the conversation. “How’s your mom by the way?”

I recoil, “Why?”

“I can’t ask about my second mom?” 

I pause, the dew from the bottles of water soaking through my hoodie, and I wonder why Reno hasn’t come in to check. But I notice that the blinds are now closed. And the door probably locked. Because Sephiroth had this planned from the moment he called me the first time, and like hell he would tolerate an interruption. I huff, “She’s good.”

“Good to hear,” he nods, “So she doesn’t need her xanax any more?”

And I feel the boiling of rage that he would drag my mother into this. Stealing my shit never enough. I tense, “I’m not doing this. I’m done.” . 

He draws out a rigid  _ Oh _ ? Like a dare. 

And I rage, unhinged, in a voice alien to myself. “I’m not selling for you anymore. I’m not taking my mother's medication for you. I’m not doing shit for you anymore. You fucking asshole.” 

And I don’t even have the time to relish in my counterattack. Before the last word finishes leaving my lips, Sephiroth slammed me against the refrigerator. The waters crashing down around us. His face inches from mine. His eyes glow under the white light. Rupturing with a rage I’ve seen as a child when I’ve attempted to stand my ground. He grips my shoulders and I feel his fingertips deep in my skin, through the hoodie and shirt, as if trying to break my flesh. 

And despite the bubbling rage, his tone is low, even, like the first rumble from a dormant Volcano. “I protect you. Do you know that? The amount of people who want to kick your ass for running that fucking mouth of yours is quite impressive for such a pathetic shit stain.” I beg my body not to betray, but I flinch at his words, and the trembling smile on his face looks satisfied, “And the rumors? I’m the one that stops them. No one would dare cross  _ me _ . Without me, you are _ nothing _ . I want you to understand that.”

He releases me. Takes exactly one step back to wait for my rebuttal. But I have none. The water that plagues my lungs, whether in my mind or something tangible, drowns me. And I try to remain a brick fortress. And hide the small spasms in my eyes that remain narrowed at the taller boy. But I feel entirely too small. Too frail. 

And he knows this. “Remember Camp? 2001?” he continues, “That could have ended very differently for you.  _ Remember that _ .” He bends down and picks up one of the fallen waters, “I wonder how Zack is doing these days? I also recall you two being  _ close _ .” He moves his eyes towards the back door. 

My harsh breaths answers the unasked question. 

Betrayed, once again, by my own mind that collapses into itself, 

Like a dying star. And there’s nothing I can say; my lips sewed shut. 

My eyes burn; and I can see myself reflected in the black’s of his own. 

Pathetic. 

Sephiroth allows a chuckle rumble low in his throat. “You know. I think I’m going to let you off the hook for tonight. You seem real wound up. Maybe smoke a bit more. It’ll calm you down.” He slams his hand on my shoulder and shakes me gently. And I feel myself fall apart as he heads upstairs to raid the bathrooms. 

And I’m too much of a coward to stop him. 

I make a b-line for the bathroom. Slam the door and grip the sink to steady myself as the world seems to move around me. Close my eyes and try to count to ten. Try to find a thread to grip onto. To yank my brain back together. Stitch it shut like an open wound. 

And the hot tears press against my eyelids.

And I fucking  _ hate _ myself in this moment. 

With such much veracity.

That a flash of Cid’s switchblade in my room appears behind my eyes.

They fly open.

_ Focus _ . I whisper. I stare at the black drain. Of the white porcelain sink. In the bathroom on the first floor of my house that smells like baby power and glows with a pink hue. 

Remember to breathe. There’s nothing in my lungs except the black tar from smoking too many cigarettes; and I’ll deal with that when I’m older. Right now, I’m sixteen. I’m in control of my body. And  _ my mind _ . 

My hands drenched with sweat, 

And I slip off the sink and nearly crack my head on it; but I manage to gain my balance with the fire of my frustration. And my anger at my own shortcomings. And why can’t I just be fucking normal like every

Other

Boy.

I yell  _ Fuck _ until my throat bleeds.

And punch the bathroom door like it’s the face of the villain that mocks me. 

Scratch up my knuckles on splintering wood. 

And the hole I make looks like me. 

And just when I think of breaking down, the door swings open and Reno emerges into the bathroom. He takes one look at me. Closes the door and looks at the hole. 

“Why are you attacking the door for, babe?” He questions. Looking back with his eyes gripped with concern. 

“It was talking shit,” I force a smile that evaporates when he approaches me. Taking his thumb and running it along my cheeks. 

“Yeah, I’m sure that was the door. What did he say?”

“Nothing,” I lie. I don’t even consider telling him. Not the threats or implications. But my voice so low it cracks, he knows I’m not giving him the whole story. And maybe that’s strike two for me. I shift my eyes towards the floor and whisper, “But, maybe we shouldn’t be in here together.”

He drops his hand to the side, nodding his head. A toss between disappointed and furious. “Right.” he enunciates each letter. Letting them past through his teeth, sharpening them. He takes a breath,“Do you want me to kill him? Because I have no problem doing that.”

I dart my eyes. And his are playful. Bloodshot from the weed, but shine even in the muted daylight that leaks into the bathroom. And he looks amused so I drop my guard and smile. “Maybe.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, “call me when that’s a yes.”

We both laugh, and I forget about Sephiroth’s footsteps creaking upstairs and reach out to take his hand. Reno pauses for a second before tightening his grip and running his thumb over my bruised knuckles. He knows what happened. And it was that easy for the facade to disappear.

Even if Sephiroth received no vocal confirmation. There’s still the rumors. 

And rumors are like flint. One spark and it can set the whole forest on fire. 

“We have to go to that party.” I acknowledge. 

“I know,” he nods without a hint of aggravation. And I’m shocked at the lack of push back. He sighs, “Rufus called. Wants to know why I haven’t been chillin’ and Elena’s been complaining that I don’t call.”

There’s nothing more to say. Everyone on this island too damn observant.

And I’m sick of all these familiar streets and the people that know too much. 

“What are we going to do?” I ask. 

“What we’ve always done,” he releases my hand, “play it straight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your continued support! If I don't respond to a comment it's because I'm dead from it. haha.   
> So I felt this chapter was a little corny in the beginning, but considering I know what's going to happen in the next four chapters, enjoy the corn. In fact, the next three chapters I am a little unsure about, so any feedback definitely helps!
> 
> P.S: Fireman O'Toole is a TRUE STORY. Happened at my friends high school. A loser and his girlfriend put everyone on blast on myspace. They eventually found out who it was (turns out the loser is one of my close friends haha) and he got his ass kicked. I know who Fireman is in this story, but I wonder if anyone can figure it out before the reveal. I mean, just incase he/she makes a reappearance in the story. *thinking emoji*.


	23. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels good to know you're mine
> 
> Now drive me far away, away, away
> 
> Far away I don't care where
> 
> Just far away I don't care where  
> -Be Quiet and Drive: Deftones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> Drug abuse  
> Sexist language  
> Domestic violence.  
> Blood.  
> PTSD triggered response  
> Suicide/Self-Harm implications.

The white car feels like a coffin. 

Even with the  _ Z100 _ blasting the top 40 hits. And Cid, Barret and Tifa cackling in the back. The raven haired girl with her new digital camera taking pictures of themselves in obnoxious poses. I place my head on the window, letting the cold glass alleviate the tension headache that pulses against my skull, and watch the scenery creep along. Large houses giving way to clusters of trees that silhouette against the evening sky the deeper we get into the South Shore. 

I close my eyes and try to imagine myself anywhere else. 

Think back to just a few hours before. 

When Sephiroth got what he wanted he offered us a reprieve and left to “get ready” with instructions on when we will leave and to get the group to my house so he doesn’t have to drive all over the island. And he had darted his eyes to Reno before he walked out the door and asked if he would ride with us; but the red-head, arms over his chest and bored expression just told him he’s “good on that.” 

Reno made his own plans. 

I waited on the couch for him, as he smoked outside while speaking to his cousin. And he walked in as I examined the bruises on my knuckles, red with tiny scraps from the wood, and lamented to myself how it had  _ just healed _ only for old wounds to re-open. I could barely look at Reno when he re-emerged. Cross between ashamed and fearful. But he took a seat on the coffee table facing me, gently took my injured hand, and ran his thumb over the knuckles as I have done to him in the past. His eyes also pulled towards the ground. 

“I’m going to go over there for dinner,” he stated, “make an appearance.”

I nod, “Makes sense.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Tif, Cid, and Barret are coming over. We’ll order something and chill until Sephiroth scoops us.”

“Good.” He doesn’t even have to say it- he doesn’t want me left alone. We curbed the conversation on what happened to the bathroom door. Our words hang heavy in the air. All the things we want to express, we hold against our chest. Almost as if they were weapons. 

We don’t say anything else for a while. I’m not a fan of these tense silent moments, but enjoy just letting his hand grip mine. Skin against skin. A touch can hold so many meanings.

“So, Brooklyn huh?” he started “Ever think of going further?”

I pondered what he’s trying to get at. Considered his question. “Maybe Massachusetts? Gay marriage is legal there now.”

“Oh?” His voice playful. Our eyes met. “Planning our wedding?”

I blushed and started to falter. “N-no. Just...it’s more progressive there, so...I don’t-”

“I’m fuckin’ with you,” he whispered, “nothing wrong with plannin’ ahead.” His lips stretched into a soft smile. “Massachusetts doesn’t sound too bad.”

“A lot of good colleges,” I added. 

“We could go to different ones, double the parties.” 

“Good idea. More options.”

His laugh looked painful. “They’re big on hockey there.”

“Didn’t realize you were a hockey fan.”

He slouched his shoulders with a sigh, “Yeah, my grandfather had season tickets to the Predators. Used to take me before he died. Always wanted to play, but they didn’t really have any options for lessons out in Cookeville.” 

“Maybe you could try playing now?” I suggested, “We play street hockey a lot in the summer and Clove Lakes offers lessons.”

His eyes fall back to my hand, shaking his head on the way down. “I think my hockey career is over. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to play baseball again.”

“Don’t let Sephiroth get to you,” I rolled my eyes and grabbed his hand tightly. 

“It’s not him.” His arms flinched under his shirt; and I tried to pretend I never noticed the aggravated look that would flash across his face as he tried to swing the bat when we played. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“Says who?” I snapped, “If it matters to you. It matters.”

He smiled and that’s exactly what I wanted. 

Because I knew this entire conversation just circled around the actual issue; it was more pleasant to discuss our hopeful future than the uncertain present. But that won’t make it go away. 

“Do you feel like the last two months were a dream and we’re going to wake up soon?” I asked, my heart clenching. 

“Nah, not a dream.” And the chuckle from his throat was concerning. So I bring my eyes to him and he takes a sharp breath. “Remember back in, what, October?” His eyes shimmer when they capture mine, and I took note of all his curves and edges while he spoke. “When we...were so close to getting together but just not there yet? What did I say to you? Why it was so easy for me to wait for you?”

I remembered. “You said…I was the endgame…” And I thought about how I should have kissed him a month before that, in the bathroom, when he had me up against the wall. And how much longer we could have been together. 

And he might have noticed the regret in my eyes, because he ran his hand along my face to bring us closer. Lips just daring to touch under the late afternoon light. “I got you, didn’t I?” And the kiss he offered tastes of blue. “You’re mine and I’m yours and  _ that’s _ all the matters.” A painful pause rushed through, like winter cold. And I closed my eyes so his voice was all I heard. And his touch all I felt. “This is the endgame, Cloud,” he sighed, “Now all that’s left is living happily ever after, right?”

And I laughed. Called him out of being corny. 

And he responded with his mouth on mine. Our limbs tangled again. 

And we enjoyed the last four hours together, without wandering eyes. 

While I take solace in knowing we’ll be at the same party, there’s still a sense of dread that weighs heavy in my stomach. Especially when we make it to our destination, and I can see through the two bay windows, the amount of bodies that occupy the large home. Nothing good could come from that many people in one spot, on Staten Island, where I know the alcohol and drugs will flow freely like the Nile.

My uneasiness is not quenched when we enter. Apparently, Angeal’s younger sister, a grade below us, also invited a bunch of Sophomores to the party. And Genesis must have invited the entire track 2 of seniors who take over the dining room where they force the younger kids to funnel Coors Light and laugh when they inevitably spit out the warm beer when it passes their lips. 

A memory lurches from my stomach. 

Sephiroth immediately vanishes, morphing with the rest of the people. Whispers of what he’s selling quickly follow like falling dominoes. Disembodied voices speak of a bunch of girls candy flipping upstairs. Promises of Triple Cs. And tons of weed. Someone apparently has an Oxy hookup, which we are offered within the first ten minutes of immersing ourselves into the party. Barret and I exchange a look, silently agreeing to make a run for it as soon as an opening allows. 

We lose Tifa somehow- apparently she ran into a few people from New Dorp and they guide her outside with the promise of smoking her up. The three of us navigate towards the kitchen where the volume increases. A white pong ball flies past my face and my eyes snap to the culprit. 

Reno shakes his head, “Dammit, Yazoo, fucking learn to catch, bro.”

Yazoo hisses, “Learn to fucking throw, bitch.”

Rude sinks a ball, but not without first throwing Reno a side glare. And now I’m wondering if he over shot on purpose to get my attention. Cid and I approach the table. Reno nodding over to us, “Well look who decided to show up.”

“We got next game,” Cid announces, “we need a rematch.”

“Bet,” Rude agrees, “but no stripping this time.”

The red head looks directly at me, and I try to hide the smile behind a sip of beer. “Let us just beat these pussys again and ya’ll up.” 

“Fuck you, Sinclair,” Loz shouts, “I’m about to fight you for reals. You’ve been flappin’ your gums since you got here.” He punches his fist for emphasis, which does nothing but amuse Reno. 

“Bring it fucker,” he sinks another ball, “Can’t even beat us in beer pong, but thinks he can kick my ass.”

Loz and Yazoo look about ready to toss the pong table aside. I shoot my eyes at Reno, like some non-verbal warning to cool his mouth, because if one of these jackasses tries to go for him, I’m going to have to get involved.

And I’m not in the mood to fight some pig-headed fucks over a game of beer pong. 

And Reno rolls his eyes and huffs; signaling his understanding. 

Barret, Cid and I get comfortable in the kitchen, leaning up against counters to watch the game. Cid starts getting ancy when he realizes Tifa is no longer in his eyesight. Complaining that she shouldn’t have wandered away, like some entirely over protective boyfriend. 

Aerith appears in the kitchen, her smile bright when she sees us and skips over. 

“You guys came!” She takes a sip of- what looks like- cranberry vodka. Her cheeks already rosy from the liquor. 

“How did you get here?” I ask.

“Ugh,” she groans, “Rufus drove Tseng and I. He fought with Scarlet the whole time. He is such a bad driver, I thought I was going to die!” She looks around and spots Reno, still engrossed in this neverending beer pong game, and turns her attention on me. With a concerned look on her face. “Uh, how about you?”

I grit my teeth, “Uh. Seph.”

“Ew-a!” She shrieks, “Why!”

“He offered the ride, drove Cid, B, and Tif.” I answer with Cid and Barret grumbling in agreement.

“Really? I thought you’d be done with him by now,” she snaps quietly.

I don’t really have a good enough answer for her, but her face wells with disappointment just adds insult to injury. “So, where is Tseng?” I change the subject.

She waves her hand dramatically towards the living room, “I don’t know. Probably with Rufus,” her green eyes nearly disappear behind her lids with how harsh she rolled them. We talk with hush tones, drowned out by the shouts coming from all areas of the house, about her issues with her potential new beau. Though she never mentioned outright that he was her late night guest on NYE, I had my suspicion when I saw them at school together that following Wednesday; him propped up against her locker, holding every book she owned as she tried to look for something she lost. She explained how much she liked Tseng. He’s attractive. And kind hearted underneath that stone exterior. And, I mean, he’s going to be a  _ doctor _ . And somehow that’s suddenly important to her.

Though, considering how much of a slacker her drug dealing ex was, I guess she rose her standards. However, something holds her back. I see it in the way her eyes drift to her drink, whirling round the purple beverage until it creates a tornado in her cup, that she’s hesitant to confirm their coupling. 

And I wonder if it’s the familiarity. The toxic best friend that looms just beyond the relationship. With their own set of issues that always seems to leak onto the couple. She crushes the rest of her drink with a sour look. Professes that she’s not intending on repeating history and points her eyes at me with venom. “And neither should you.” And then looks over at Reno.

“Be more obvious,” I scold; luckily Cid has vanished to look for Tifa and Barret walked over to the pong table to hype up Rude. 

She slaps her mouth, “Sorry! You know what happens when I drink vodka!”

“I  _ know _ ,” I open the fridge next to me and pull out two beers, “Your loose lips better not sink this ship, deadass.” 

“Oh, you know I love it when you talk like a New Yorker,” she laughs and takes the beer. She makes an effort to flirt with me, which I return- both of us hardly able to contain the laughter that erupts from how ridiculous we know we look. She hits my shoulder with her fist, and I mock her for her weak attempt at physical violence, grabbing her hand with my free one to show her how to actually throw a punch. And I do take note of the way her skin rises when I touch her. And my cheeks do flush when she “gives up” on learning to fight, and “hires” me as her bodyguard instead. And we look at each other and smile at how effortless we make this look.

Rude’s voice shatters the act though, “Fuckin! Reno, pay attention!”

Aerith and I jump. Bring our eyes to the pong table, where the game has probably entered its third overtime judging from the amount of cups still left. The boy at the end of his cousin's rage chugs two red solo cups and slams them on the ground. “I am paying attention, fuck.  _ You  _ pay attention.”

“You let them get two redemptions already!” Rude continues, and he snaps his brown eyes at me, and I feel the anger radiate off him.

I cringe and lean into Aerith, “I think we’re making this look  _ too _ good?”

She nods, but smiles over at the two boys, “Kick their asses!”

Reno shakes his head at us with a pissed look on his face- this is probably strike three if we’re keeping any kind of score right now. He bounces the ball on the table to get a feel and sinks the middle cup. Glaring at Rude and mumbles something toxic towards his partner. 

The game continues and I notice some shift in the energy around us. I take a quick look into the living room; Seph and his buddies (Gen, Angeal, and Kadaj), have taken over the couches with some girls I don’t recognize. The boys look wired, cruel smiles stretch across their faces in unnatural ways. The girls laying across their laps strung out on whatever drug courses through their bloodstream- and I wonder if it’s my mother’s xanax and my stomach coils at the thought. I hear commotion coming from upstairs. Shrill screams of pleasure that I can’t make out are from sex or uppers. There’s a few girls that look too young to be here crying in a corner, over a boy or the alcohol that clouds their heads. 

I’ve been to Angeal’s parties, and this seems very textbook. Which means chaos will happen eventually. I look back into the kitchen, Barret on his phone bored, Cid still missing looking for Tifa. Aerith shifts closer to me as some guys lock eyes with her and think she’s up for grabs. Reno doesn’t even seem phased by her body against mine, and stares with intent at the remaining three cups on his opponents side. I’m guessing dedicated to ending this torture and going up against me. 

And I start plotting our escape. Once he beats the two silver haired losers, we’ll demolish the cousins and then gather our core group (including Aerith, Tseng, Rude, and even Reeve, wherever he is) and head to Vincent, who would be expecting us to roll in at some point. There’s no reason for any of us to stay here to get run out by cops. Seph got what he wanted. Hell, bonus, is Aerith and I flirting, hopefully putting to bed any rumors. Reno made an appearance at a party with his Shinra buddy. And maybe shit can just go back to our new normal. 

But I know it only takes one push to drag this sideways. 

And I watch her appear in the form of Scarlet. Her heels clicking against the tiled floor as she stomps through the kitchen like she’s on a mission. 

And apparently her target is my boyfriend, as she wraps her arms around his neck and yanks him against her. He doesn’t react at first, evidently used to this kind of action from her. 

“Can I help you?” he grimaces, taking aim against his opponents. 

She whispers something in his ear that’s suffocated by rising conversations that swirl around us. He lets out a mocking laugh and shoves her off him. “Fuck outta here, Scarlet.”

Her face curled in anger, she clenches her fist and shouts something at him that’s a mess of slurred words fueled by alcohol or drugs. Reno looks unamused as he brings his focus back to the game. Eye roll towards Rude who shares in his cousin’s vexed look. Scarlet starts pointing her finger in his face. Calls him something along the lines of an asshole _.  _ Reno tries to ignore the verbal assault against him, which only elevates Scarlet. Apparently, there’s some history between the two from the words that tumble from her lips that make sense. Something about over the summer he was begging for it; which from the smirk on his face seems like a gross over exaggeration. Then she shoves him. He collides with Rude, who ends up missing a shot. 

And whatever patience Reno disappears, and he pushes her arm away from him, “Yo,” he shouts, loud enough, that the entire kitchen can hear. “please, for the love of  _ God _ , go piss yourself again in a corner alone and away from me!”

Aerith cringes. The rest of the kitchen erupts into a chorus of laughter that slices through the night. And Scarlet looks positively mortified at what just came out of Reno’s mouth- the red-head with his eyes still narrowed at the smaller girl as a silent threat that he has more ammo if she wants this to turn into a shoot out. And judging from the way her cheeks burn red, he’s dragging up true events. I’ve never heard him speak with such disregard for the person. The closest was when he had me up against a wall threatening to end my life if I breathed a word about his sexuality. And his eyes, glimmering with rage, look just as murderous as they did that day. And I can’t tell if this is an act, or something hiding underneath my almost blind attraction towards him.

And I also have to question why I’m slightly  _ excited _ by his unchecked rage. 

But Scarlet doesn’t seem as enthralled by his display. She takes her arm and swipes the remaining solo cups off the table, splashing both Rude and Reno with warm, stale, beer. And then underneath the gasps, the commotion, and Rude’s own expels of expletives, she flings that  _ one word _ directly at Reno, like she means it. And for a second, when his fist curled, that he might actually hit a girl. 

Instead he shoulder checks her as he storms off, disappearing into the mob of bodies in the living room as he yells, “Rufus, collect your cunt girlfriend before I get Elena to knock her out!” Scarlet on his tail, still yelling curses at him and dares for Elena try  _ anything _ . 

Rude throws his arms in the air at the bullshit that just transpired. Loz and Yazoo claiming victory, though this was clear sabotage. Barret gets involved, defending his football buddy, from the two scrawny boys who, now, want to get in their face over a beer pong game. I throw Aerith a look. One we’ve shared at other events that have fallen apart. We move our eyes back to the living room- the door opening and we see another match threatening to spark. Roche. Part of the Rosebank crew, and entirely too far away from his stomping grounds to be a normal occurrence. We’ve had small run-ins with him and his group at Kyrie’s place, but not anywhere past Midland Beach. He saunters in like he’s invited. Long brown hair that looks business in the front and a little too much party in the back. 

He locks eyes with Sephiroth, a dangerous grin dancing across his face. Seph doesn’t share in the amusement. And I see this going south real fast. 

“This isn’t good,” I remark to Aerith who nods. 

“I think I might try to find Tseng and see if he wants to leave…”

I’m about to go with her, so she doesn’t have to traverse this house alone, when Reno makes it back to the kitchen. Flustered. He walks up to us, “Well I just saw Rufus’ penis. And I was right, he’s definitely overcompensating.”

“I fucking new it was small!” I shout. 

“Not small,” he shifts, “It’s  _ thin _ .”

“Ew a pencil dick!” Aerith shrieks, “Those are so gross.”

Reno and I both cock an eyebrow at the brown-haired girl taking a sip of her beer and shaking her head as if traumatized. She notices our eyes bearing down on her, and just about to explain herself- which we never asked for- when Rufus comes stumbling in, still in the process of fixing his pants, shirtless, and with a poisoned laugh. 

“Yo, she’s going wild on that chick,” he cackles towards Rude. 

“What girl?” Rude asks.

“I don’t know her name!”

The volume of the entire house escalates. Pounding against my head. I can’t make out actual conversations, just voices swallowed by an ocean. 

Aggressive words echo from the living room. It seems Seph and Gen aren’t pleased with the appearance of Roche. And I see the dominoes begin to fall. Hitting into their neighbor and crashing to the floor. Scarlet comes flying from somewhere in the house, continuing her screeching yells towards Rufus this time. Accusing him of cheating on her. Again. He responds with more laughing, even as she starts hitting him on his bear chest and insulting his manhood. He calls her crazy. Psycho. Any other synonym for insane. Anything to make him out to look like a hopeless victim, while his girlfriend burns with hot tears. Guy can’t even stand straight, falling into cabinets. His eyes looking like two black specks. Finally, she punches him in the jaw. Calls him a daddy’s boy. Announces he has a pegging fantasy.

And Rufus Shinra crosses that line and shoves his petite girlfriend across the room, her body colliding with the wall that shakes the house. But Scarlet, apparently having been used to this retaliation, doesn’t crumble or falter. She springs herself off the wall and charges for him. Jumping onto his back and punching his head with the soft side of her fists, as he struggles to get her off him And I look at Reno for some reaction. But he shakes his head with a bored expression, as if he’s watching a rerun. Barret, on the other hand, decides this is a good time to vacate the area, as Rude desperately tries to get Scarlet off his friend. 

Noises from the living room rise. I turn with enough time to see Roche get right into Sephiroth’s smirking face. Low grumbles fueled by alcohol rumbling from the brown-haired boy's throat, but Sephiroth remains unphased. 

Tseng runs past us, throwing Reno a  _ why are you standing there look _ , as he tries to help the feuding couple. Reno just shrugs at the event unfolding. Tseng and Rude manage to separate the two, the former dragging a screaming, red-faced, Rufus out into the living room. Where I manage to catch Roche swing at Sephiroth. And I jerk to go help him, when Reno’s arm jets in front of me. His blue eyes piercing right through me, just  _ daring _ me to get involved. 

“Uh-oh,” Aerith’s soft voice manages to break through, “it’s happening.”

“What?” Reno questions, still blocking my path. 

Aerith snaps her green eyes to me and I groan, addressing my boyfriend. “We got a drunk couple fighting, now we got a bunch of meatheads fighting.”

“Which means,” Aerith continues, “one of two things are about to happen.”

“Either there’s a girl overdosing on drugs somewhere,” I add, “Or someone’s about to accuse the only black guy of stealing any Ipod.”

“Even though it’s probably the accuser who stole the ipod.”

Reno scans between the two of us, “No way you can call that.”

“Oh!” Aerith jumps, “Third option? Cat fight.”

I squint at the clock, “Nah, we’re way past cat fight.”

And before Reno has a chance to protest our premonition, Cid walks in fron the backyard. Probably the most sober I’ve ever seen him at this hour of a party. Long sleeve still on over his patched vest. His eyes look like a storm cloud but crushed with concern. And I feel I already know what he’s about to say before the words leave his mouth. “I found Tifa, she’s buggin out.”

“God dammit,” I snap, “Why’s it gotta be our chick overdosing! What did she take?”

“Too many triple Cs,” he grumbles, his eyebrows curved in anger. 

“Where is she?”

“Outside, I left her with Rude and Barret.” He starts back for the door and the three of us follow. In the blistering cold, which tastes of frost, Tifa sits on the cobbled stone ground, head in her hands, shaking either from the drugs or the cold. Rude kneels next to her, hand on her back, trying to comfort her- and I can practically feel the burn from Cid when he comes upon the scene. 

But I’m more concerned with Tifa’s sobs which break through the dense night air. She repeats in a broken voice  _ I don’t want to be like this anymore. I don’t want to be high anymore. Make it stop please _ . And I know different drugs hit people with different intensity. But Tifa never reacts well when in an altered state; having a panic attack once when we smoked five blunts on 4/20. And she’s seen what these did to Jessie and Yuffie when they were at Johnnys. And she watched us rip the razors out of their hands, and try to stop them from scratching up their arms. 

And I’m a cross between worried from the howling that exits her throat and furious that she would think this is a good idea. 

I sit in front of her, gently taking her arms and removing her hands so I can look into her eyes. She’s wearing her colored contacts and they look like blood red planets eclipsing the blackened moon. They dart around as if trying to find a focal point. 

“Hey,” I whisper, “you’re good. Everything’s good.”

She tries staring into my eyes, “I don’t feel like I exist anymore.”

“Sounds about right,” I sigh. 

“I’m going to find Tseng,” Aerith says, “I think it’s time to leave.” She doesn’t wait for a response, before running back inside. I look over at Barret, and he understands the fear stitched along my face, and goes in after her.

“The fuck are Triple C’s?” Reno questions.

“Coiricdin,” Rude replies, “Cough medicine.”

“Ya’ll take  _ cough medicine _ to get high,” he judges, and I feel his eyes on me as if questioning my involvement. And like hell I’m about to tell him about my experience. “What the fuck? That’s fuckin’ dumb.”

“Well what do you assholes take in West Bumblefuck Alabama,” Cid hisses, arms over his chest with a threatening look directed towards the red-head. 

“First, I’m from Tennessee, you fake Irish fuck,” Reno seeths, “Second, we take shrooms like normal people if we want to hallucinate.”

Cid waits a beat, “Oh word? I always wanted to try shrooms.”

“Guy, they’re fucking amazing. I would kill to do those again.”

“Not helping!” I shout at the two budding drug buddies. Just as a fist connects with my jaw with such force, I’m startled out of any buzzed feeling I gained from the limited alcohol I consumed. Tifa gasps, looking at her fist which has left a mark on my face. 

“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, “You turned into a wolf and I wanted you back!”

I blink trying to get control of my brain again, “I turned into a wolf?”

“Yes! Don’t do that again!”

I look at Rude, “She needs to get the fuck home right now.”

“You got it, man.” He stands up and Cid suddenly looks panicked. 

“I’m coming with you!” The blonde frantically yells. Rude merely shrugging his shoulders and putting up no argument. 

The sliding door slams and an agitated Barret storms towards us, eyes pointed at Rude. “They are fighting in the street now and the neighbors are calling the cops. We gotta go.”

Rude nods, “Way ahead of you man.” He looks at Tifa, “Alright, girlie, I’m going to pick you up now.” He scoops up Tifa bridal style, and she latches on to him, frantic eyes looking around as if she’s just been transported. And maybe in her head she has. 

I pull out my phone to call Aerith when we hear the screech of a car. 

A crash from the front of the house. 

People yelling. Pain and fear. 

And then tires screaming into the abyss. 

Some people who remained in the kitchen start running towards the front of the house. Others sneaking out the back and heading for yards to make their escape. 

Then a muffled silence. I know Tifa continues to sob into Rude’s shoulder, now completely out of her mind. And like programmed, I start heading for the front through the side of the house. I hear Reno ask me what the fuck I was doing. 

“Go with Rude,” I instruct the rest of the team, “I have to go check it out.”

I sense the commotion behind me, but don’t respond. Reno and Cid join me as we head towards the crowd that has formed in front of Angeal’s house. Yells to call an ambulance reach our ears and my chest starts to tighten. Hands sweating which freeze against the blistering wind. 

Aerith emerges from the crowd, pale skin stained with something red. 

And my heart completely halts.

This isn’t a memory. No. This is something worse.

I run towards her. Her green eyes wide in shock. There’s wet specks of blood on her face and tights. Her hands trembling. 

I grab her, “Aerith what happened?”

She blinks a few times, relaxing when she realizes it’s me. “Oh god, they hit him.” She manages to sputter. 

“Who? Who got hit?”

“We were trying to leave,” she continues, her eyes glassy from tears. “a car came out of nowhere and hit him.” 

Reno mutters  _ Oh shit _ . Right as Aerith whispers, “Sephiroth.”

I look at the dispersing crowd, where Sephiroth lays on the concrete sidewalk, Tseng next to him trying to keep him from moving. 

It takes me a second to make sense of the scene unfolding. 

And I suddenly feel like I’m the one on too many drugs. In a dream. Everything glows underneath the street light. Tense voices like they’re underwater. 

I move Aerith to Cid. I must have given him a command; like take her, or go with him. But I don’t feel the words in my throat. I walk like I’m floating on air to the body on the ground. I can hear Tseng trying to calmly tell a writhing Seph to stay still. I kneel next to him, his hazel eyes aflamed when they rest on me. He’s covered in his blood. Red dripping down his head. His right arm completely mangled.

I finally notice Reeve, the raven haired boy already on the phone calling for an ambulance. In any other circumstance would have been akin to snitching. And I see Kadaj and his group down the block, evidently trying to chase the car. 

I address Tseng, “What happened?”

Before he can answer, Seph growls, “Did I get hit by a car?”

“That’s the third time he asked that,” Tseng reveals, fear hidden below the blank tone of voice. 

“What should we do?”

“He got clipped on his side; he could have a broken rib. He could puncture a lung or have internal bleeding we can’t see.”

“You know,” Reno kneels next to me, “just ‘cause your parents are doctors doesn’t mean you’re one.”

“I’m going to  _ be _ one. You would know if you cared about anyone else but yourself.”

“Psh, I care. You’re just a robot.”

Sephiroth's yelp of pain breaks the two out of the debate. “Was it that pussy Roche,” he clenches his teeth and I see the blood pooling on his mouth. “I’m going to fucking kill him.” He tries to get up, but makes an animalistic scream that sounds like a wounded bear when he moves. Tseng and I gently push him back down.

“The best thing to do is keep him awake,” Tseng continues, “try to stop him from moving too much.”

“That’s like trying to keep a bobcat in a bag, yo! Look at this guy.” 

Tseng shoots Reno a pointed glare. Telling him to shut up with just his black eyes that I’m almost impressed when the red-head staples his lips shut. 

I try to take his advice, I lean closer to Seph. He looks at me with eyes beading with tears. And I hate this small sense of satisfaction in my body when I see him so helpless. “Hey, uh, how are you doing?” I ask with a cringe when I see the full blown anger that boils within my friend. 

“How the fuck do you think I’m doing!” He screams in pain. “Gah! Why am I still conscious!”

“You...may have taken a drug that is upping your adrenaline. Keeping you awake,” Tseng ponders. And with the amount of pills being passed around that party, that’s extremely likely. And from the way his eyes are dilated, confirms he’s on something. 

He tries to move again, but I press him down by the shoulder. “Hey, woah, don’t move. Everything is going to be okay. The ambulance is coming.”

I’m not sure how he accomplishes this, but he manages to grab my short blond hair- evidently long enough that he gets a strong enough grip in the strands- and nearly yanks my head off. I wince in pain as he pulls me close enough that I can feel his breath on me. “Shut.the.fuck.up.” 

If he could move, he would kill me. I know it. I just freeze like I always do when up against him. Cursing at myself that, even in this broken state, he still elicits fear from me. Reno, however, not even the slightest bit concerned, starts aggressively poking his forehead. 

“Yo,” he shouts, “let him go!”

Seph releases me, breathing heavily, “Cloud, tell your shit head boyfriend to get out of my face before I break his!”

Reno halts his assault, but there’s a sadistic smile on his face where there should be a scowl. And I jump in quickly, “Cid’s my shithead boyfriend, he’s my bitch ass boyfriend, and you’re my dick head boyfriend.”

And Seph lets out another scream of pain, eyes shut, allowing for a few angry tears to fall down his cheeks. “I swear I'm going to burn you all alive!” 

Reno and I exchange a look, before we feel the pensive gaze of Tseng pierce through us. We look at him in unison. His eyes examining our forms as if suddenly wondering why Reno’s so close to me, why Sephiroth would refer to him as my boyfriend- even as a joke- and why we didn’t immediately correct him. 

But Reno looks at Tseng like he’s  _ daring _ him to say something. But the boy remains still across from us. Then, without moving his blue eyes from Tseng, Reno addresses me, “I’m going to check on the girls. I think you guys got it here.” He stands and leaves.

I wait for Tseng to say something. But his lips remain shut and he brings his attention back to the injured boy next to him. 

And despite the sense that he’s now second guessing mine and Reno’s friendship, I appreciate his existence during this time. Tseng takes the lead. Keeping Sephiroth alert enough, even as the blood rushes from his face and he pales like newly fallen snow. And giving me orders throughout to keep me from completely losing it at the sight of my friend. When the ambulance comes with the police, he gives them a statement. In slow, purposeful words that sound so assured I almost envy his cool demeanour. And feel weak next to him, hands shaking in the pockets of my leather jacket, as the cops ask me questions I struggle to answer. 

It feels like days go by as they lift Sephiroth’s broken body onto the gurney. And usher him into the ambulance. The red and blue lights casting shadows along the white houses that line the street. And I feel my soul reconnect with my body, and realize I’ve been outside of myself this whole time. Like a defense. But now the reality of the situation begins to take shape as the sirens disappear down the street. That things are going to be different now. There has to be consequences.

When the cops are finished with their questioning, they turn their attention towards the occupants of the house- the Hewley children who stand outside, looking like grimacing statues as they await the inevitable interrogation on what exactly happened in that house. Tseng and I use this as our opportunity to return to the group who have congregated around the corner. We walk in silence. But I know he has questions brewing on the tip of his tongue. And I fear he’s going to give them life. 

He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, and my own body feels like it’s about to collapse.

But nothing. I can see him looking at me from my peripheral. He closes his mouth, and looks straight ahead. And I’m grateful. 

The only people left are Reno and Reeve. The former approaches, his hands in his pockets. 

“Yo, he good?” He asks as if he cares. Tseng gives him the abridged version of events and Reno nods along, occasionally darting his eyes towards me. Creased with uneasy interest. 

“Where are the girls?” I ask. 

“Rude took Cid, Aerith, Tif and Barret home.” He responds, “He’s on his way back for us.”

Tseng huffs, “Well there goes my chance with Aerith.” I shoot him an unprovoked glare and he chuckles at my attempt to look jealous. “Anyway. I’m going to try to locate Rufus. Hopefully Scarlet hasn’t murdered him.” 

“Good luck,” Reno rolls his eyes, “That’s all you, man.”

“Reeve,” he calls for backup, “let’s go.” He bids us farewell as he and Reeve start their search. 

It’s just Reno and I. The darkened side street surrounded by trees and a single lamppost. The only sound from howling wind dancing through dead branches. And it’s not exactly perfect. But we’re finally alone, without the eyes that bore with judgement earlier. He has his arms around him, insisting a jacket would ruin his outfit. He brings his eyes to mine and looks at the opening of my jacket as if asking for an invitation. We both look around the empty street. Hidden by sleeping houses far in between. And I open it with my hands in pockets, and he takes a cautious step, his lean arms snaking around my waist as I try to cocoon us in the leather fabric. It’s then I realize he’s about a half an inch taller than me, maybe. He rests his forehead on mine and his lips just barely hitting mine. 

“We shouldn’t be like this,” I mumble. 

“I know,” he acknowledges, “But I’m fucking freezing.”

I smile, “Told you to wear your jacket.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He rubs his hands up my back and I shudder against him. Which he scolds quietly, and tells me to wait until we get home. And I love that he calls it  _ home _ . As if we live together. And the thought makes me brave and I capture his lips into a warm kiss. Which he returns despite the risks. 

But he’s the first to pull back. He examines my face, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. I remove my hands from my pockets and bring them to his cheeks, and they’re cold to the touch. He closes his eyes when my fingers gather in his hair, warming them. A heavy sigh escapes his throat. “Is it bad I hope he dies?”

I recoil slightly, his arms keeping me pressed against him. The frost in his tone feels as brutal as a blizzard. His blue eyes are just as icy when he opens them to stare into my own. I have no response. And maybe that makes me a terrible friend; but I know why Reno feels that way. And I know some other people may share that sentiment. And I drop my eyebrows when the thought punctures my mind, and I wonder if I’m one of those people. 

Reno takes advantage of my lips parted in mid thought and silences any potential objection with his mouth on mine. And I forget about the danger. And I forget to care about my friend who’s coming off a serious high. Or my other friend who’s in the hospital. Or any of the people in my life who would love to see the scene and use it to destroy me. 

Because we are the only two people who exist in this fourteen miles of hell. 

And that’s all that matters.

* * *

Reno and I put on an act when Rude comes back around. His eyes gripped with restrained frustration when he sees us standing as far away as possible. As if he knew exactly what we were doing before he turned the corner, the sounds of tires on gravel pulling us apart. 

The car ride in crushing silence. Not even the radio playing. Rude keeps his eyes on the road ahead, gripping the steering wheel tightly. And I worry about the drop off home. What I’m supposed to say. How I’m supposed to act. If Rude was merely suspicious before, he knows the truth by now. And I’m not sure if the tension comes from his concern for his cousin’s wellbeing, or his cousin’s choice of partner. But I’m trying to remain calm in the backseat. Looking out the window at the ink black sky empty of stars, and thinking about Sephiroth’s parents receiving the phone call about their son. What they must feel. The first grip of fear. That gives way to anger. 

I also preoccupy myself with texts from Cid on Tifa’s well being. They went to Aerith’s dad’s house- her father on a business trip, leaving the house empty. Perfect place for Tifa to come down. Cid remains behind with the girls to make sure they are safe. And ask imposing questions on my own mental health. And I almost forgot about how I should be feeling. Everything like a nightmare. Or happened so fast, my brain didn’t have time to really think about what I bore witness to. My whole body numb. Like I fell through an iced lake.

But before I am able to acknowledge the events, the car comes to a harsh stop in front of my house. The entire mansion dark. My parents must be sleeping. 

I look at the front. Rude glaring at Reno, who I notice isn’t acknowledging his cousin.

I shift in my seat, “Well, uh, thanks for the ride.” I try to play it off like I’m leaving on my own. 

Rude’s gruff voice cuts through the night. “I guess you’re going with him, then?” 

Reno now turns to look at his cousin. Takes a rough breath, “Cloud, wait for me inside. I need to talk to my cousin.”

I nod silently and exit the car. “I’ll leave the side door unlocked.” I say before I shut the door and head into my house via the side. My heart gripped with fear over their conversation. 

Too much happened tonight. 

I enter the warmth of my basement, ripping my jacket off as it suddenly feels like I’m being suffocated, and head to the bathroom. My eyes catch the image of my hair. A bloodied print on blonde strands. 

I look at my hands and now finally notice the specks of Sephiroth’s blood drying on my hair fingers. 

And now a memory flashes relentless. Of rivers of red dripping off my finger tips.

And my whole stomach lurches and I end up vomiting into the toilet. 

Coughing up hot liquid that burns my throat raw. 

I don’t know how I kept it bottled for so long. 

But now everything smacks me,

Like I’m in a collapsing building. 

Being buried alive and I can’t breathe.

Count to ten. Remind myself of where I am.

This is the basement bathroom, with the blue hue that now smells like bile.

I’m in my house. My room two floors up. 

I’m not the one in the hospital bed. With a destroyed arm.

I’m  _ home _ . And any minute my boyfriend will walk in, and see this scene. Put it up against the scene from earlier with the hole in the door and my tears staining my face. And maybe he’ll start to wonder if I am even worth the risk anymore. 

I scramble to clean up the mess I made this time.

I sing a song to pass the time. Something I can control. But I don’t understand the words coming out of my own mouth. But I know it’s a song from the CD I gave him. That repeats a single phrase to a melodic tune. 

And it sums up entirely what I want to do. 

I rinse my mouth out. Spitting into the sink whatever sick I have left. I dare myself to look in the mirror, And I see I’m hysterical and start laughing at how  _ fucking _ pathetic I am. With red around my eyes, and tears falling down my face bruised from Tifa’s fist. I take the water, warm to the touch, and try to get the blood out of my hair. Cursing myself. Cursing Sephiroth. Cursing this island and all the devils that it holds. 

And when I pull my hand away. 

I see an ocean of red pooled in my palm.

And I almost lose control again, when Reno’s hand grabs my wrist.

And I realize it was nothing. Just water. 

I snap my eyes towards him. His face hard to read through the puddles in my eyes. 

He curls his lips, “You okay, pretty boy?”

I shake my head. “I threw up.”

“I can tell,” he gathers me in his arms, my face in his neck, arms around his body. And I forgot how warm he is with the cold coming between us all night. Like an unwanted barrier. He smells delicious and that’s the only thing I can think of. He smells familiar. He’s home. He rubs my back and whispers that everything is okay. Assures me he will never leave even though I never asked. But I guess he can read my mind. 

“Seph’s going to be fine,” he says, squeezing me like he’s trying to keep me together. “Is that why you’re so upset?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I lie.

“It matters to  _ me _ , which means it matters, right?” He uses my own words against me and I laugh. 

“What did you and Rude talk about?” I switch the subject instead of answering his question. Because I really don’t have one answer. I’m always upset. That’s my default setting.

He sighs, “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” I plead with a shaky voice. And he tenses against me. And I try to pull back so I can stare into his eyes for the answer. But he holds me tighter and keeps me in his embrace. 

And then I feel his breath against my ear, and it both relaxes and terrifies me. “He said...we’re moving too fast.” he sighs again, and I can feel him shaking his head, “and that maybe we haven’t been as subtle as we need to be.”

All the time Sephiroth called him my boyfriend. And I hoped it was a joke. Something to make us uncomfortable. But I know the way our eyes gravitate towards each other, pulled in like flowers towards the sun. And maybe he isn’t the only one who’s noticed how  _ close  _ we are. 

“What...does that mean?” I ask, my heart slamming against my chest the answer. 

But Reno kisses the side of my head, “It means shit,” he smiles, but I turn my head slightly to catch his eyes in the mirror, and they are crushed. Broken blues that shake. “I’m not going to let them ruin what we have.”

His voice sounds as commanding as when we are in our most intimate moments.

But I hear the quake in his tone. Like the whole world starts to collapse. Cracking and falling apart. 

And I wonder how much longer we have before it all comes crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with most things in this story, some are based on true events. the Seph gets hit by a car because of drugs is one of them. A friend of my sisters, rival white high school boys trying to act tough. And this is the result. Also can't seem to stop Cloud and Reno from putting their hands on each other. Gah. This party might have more lasting consequences for the boys than they think.   
> OH and Reno's outburst against Scarlet, I actually texted my friend (guy) and was like "Hey, what would you do if a girl was trying to grab your dick during an intense beer pong game, while simultaneously, your boyfriend is flirting with his exgirlfriend right in front of you." And that's the line he came up with. So B-rad deserves a writing credit for that. 
> 
> As always, thanks for the continued support! The comments, the kudos, the love! Also, I am going to shamelessly plug the new one shot I wrote: "Wicked Little Thing"- if you like dirty Reno and Cloud on a hot summer day playing with dead bodies, that might be up your alley.   
> See you all Friday!


	24. Turning Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing what you'll find  
> When you just open your eyes  
> Sometimes love can leave you blind  
> But still you try to cover all the lies  
> And ignore all the signs  
> Sometimes love can leave you blind  
> -"I Liked You Better Before You Were Naked on the Internet"   
> From First to Last.

We never acknowledge the consequences for our behavior. And maybe that’s the problem with falling in love at sixteen. 

Reno and I tried to pull away- for a week. But like a rubber band, we just snapped back together with more intensity than before; taking advantage of the school wide, parent wide, distraction that stemmed from Sephiroth’s car accident. All talk through the crimson hallways exclusively dealt with him. His recovery in the hospital. The future of his baseball career. If he would ever return to school. One fractured rib. A dislocated shoulder- his pitching arm no less. Concussion. But he was lucky. The car hit him on his right side when he, according to witnesses, charged for Roche. Too doped up to realize that car plus body doesn’t end well for the body. He landed hard on his shoulder, but avoided a potential spinal injury or death. 

I cursed his luck. 

I went to visit him the week Reno and I decided to pretend we weren’t completely obsessed with each other. More so to get a feel for his mentality. Did he remember that day at all? When he raided my mother’s medicine cabinet? When he made bold accusations about my relationship? When he basically threatened me. Called me a shit stain. Continued to exercise his control over my entire life. 

I found the shell of my vocal tormentor. Laying on the bed, eyes glazed over and glued to the ceiling above him. Arm in a sling, torso wrapped with bandages. He threw enough of a bitch fit at the doctors, they prescribed him oxycodone for the consistent pain. I narrowed my eyes at the pills on his nightstand. And he asked if I wanted one, said it would make me feel as good as him. But I declined. 

His lips curved into a smile. And that’s all he said. 

Some girls approached me with concerns, knowing we’re best friends. Cissnei, with her gelled hair in little spirals, checked on me during our Spanish class. Telling me if I needed  _ anything _ to please let her know. Hell, even Aerith asked how he was doing with a strained tone, and pursed lips, and rolled eyes. 

He was fine. He’s not that easy to kill. 

The week after, once the dust settled and no one proved to be wiser, Reno and I went back to our normal routine. Except now, picking me up from my house to go to school. And if anyone noticed how often we were together, they didn’t say anything. Not when we smoked our cigarettes outside his car before homeroom. Not when we walked to our language classes together. Or when we vanished for an entire lunch period. Or in physics when we cracked jokes, got detention together at least twice, and had to copy Proverbs 14:3 100 times. 

_ By the mouth of a fool comes a rod for his back, but the lips of the wise will preserve them. _

We were riding a high and we were destined to fall. That’s what happens, when your sixteen and stupid and dumb in love. 

If I had to guess, the gentle tides began to turn on Reno’s birthday. We got over confident. But my focus engulfed by the drive to make his birthday special when I discovered his parents weren’t going to celebrate. So I presented an idea. And he never took a second to consider. Just jumped on the offer. 

My mother started going to her parents house on weekdays to care for oma after a fall. Whether or not that's true, I never asked. I didn’t care. The house now empty during the week. And on his birthday, on a Tuesday, I got dressed for school as normal. Bid my mother farewell as she finished up her makeup in her bathroom and got into Reno’s car- where we drove around the block, hiding down a side street and smoked a cigarette until we saw my mother’s car fly past us. We called the school, pretending to be our parents, made up some excuse for our absence. I’m sick. And he has an appointment. Parked the car in the garage so no one would see it and get suspicious. 

We had the entire house to ourselves. 

I pulled him into my room, and locked the door to keep the demons out. 

We stayed connected with lips, and teeth, and tongues. And I shivered every time his hand brushed along bare skin. I changed a  _ maybe _ from a month ago to a  _ yes _ . And he asked me if I was sure until it was almost not sexy anymore; but everything he does is attractive from his gentle tone when he whispered against my ear, to his rough touch on my hips and shoulders. We melted into each other. And I sang his name like it was the only song I knew. 

Tangled in each other’s embrace. My head on his shoulder so I could reach and kiss along his neck around the chain I had bought him for his birthday. Because he’s definitely a chain guy. He responded by dancing his fingers along my arms. And commented on the muscles underneath. And told me this was the only future he wanted. Us, together, under the morning sun. In a shared bed. That I’m his endgame. Always. All the time. 

That’s how easy it is to fall into a false sense of security. At no point throughout the day, while we laid in my bed and talked about our dreams for the future, did we consider that some people might find it suspicious that both Cloud Strife and Reno Sinclair were missing from their normal spots in class. 

On the latters birthday. 

We didn’t even notice a shift immediately. The next day, business as usual. Some whispers when we walked down the halls, but nothing alarming. Like a game of telephone, it starts off innocent enough. But by Physics, I noticed Cissnei and Elena turn in their seats, give us a curious look, before resuming their hushed conversation. I looked over at Reno, who leaned in his chair, tapping a pencil against his lips. He moved his blue eyes to me, and shrugged. I thought about asking him flat out- but Hojo started scolding the girls and class resumed. 

And when I went to bring it up in the car on our way home, a text robbed me of my attention:

**Family meeting today when you get home from school** .

I arched an eyebrow. Both impressed that my dad could use a cell phone and that he called a family meeting. 

“Something serious?” Reno asked, leaning over the seat after he put the car in park in front of my house. 

My mind scrambled. What if the school called? Inquiring about my whereabouts yesterday? I can’t imagine Reno and I were convincing parents, though his impression of his father was spine chilling and I never met the man. And if that’s the case, then what will Reno be walking into when he heads home? I thought about telling him to drive somewhere far. Make that dream of running away together a reality. We don’t need the car, the money, the royalty. What’s the price of privilege in our case? 

He waved his hand in front of my face, “Yo, you good?” 

“Yeah,” I flipped the phone shut, “Dad called a meeting.” He knew what that meant; no hopping over the breaking fence to hide in the basement, smoke cigarettes until our lungs collapse, and play video games until he’s called back for tense dinners. I turned to him,“Do you think you’d be able to sneak out later?”

“To see you?” he smirked, “of course.”

I kiss him slow; savor the taste of reds.

Both the color and the brand. 

And when I pulled away, a sense of finality followed. 

Which I brushed off then. 

I walked inside to an unusual scene. Instead of the normal, my mother sprawled on the couch with her bottle of vodka and bottle of pills. My parents sat in the kitchen. My dad in his business suit, hands folded on the table and looking at the blank wall in front of him. My mother, next to him, turned to face my father, her hands in her lap. Head down. Her light brown hair actually blown out into loose waves that framed her face. I stood in the threshold of the kitchen. Right next to the empty wall where a family portrait used to rest. 

My dad told me to sit down, in a voice cut with sadness.

I told him I’d rather stand. Like a stone wall. 

My mother told him not to argue with me. 

And he didn’t, so I knew before he even uttered the words that this was serious. 

He looked at my mother, and she turned away. Not before a few tears managed to escape her concrete eyes. 

“Your mother has to go away for a while.”

Pause.

Everything stopped.

I swear even the world paused its frantic spinning. And I wonder why everytime they say this, it sounds like the first. 

“Where is she going?”

I’m eight again. 

No one responded. Not at first. 

My dad kept looking at my mom as if she was going to say something. Finish what he started. But sobs began to expel from her body. He sighed. Said with frost on his tongue, “She’s...going on a vaca-”

“I’m not a kid,” I snap, “tell me the truth.”

He cleared his throat, never once looking at me. Focusing on his folded hands instead. “A treatment center in Florida,” he swallowed hard as my mother hid her face in her hands. “To get help.”

“For how long?”

“A month...for now.” He brought his blue-green eyes onto me. I stood there, and I know he wants me to react- expected me to react. But I gripped the messenger bag across my body, until I felt it dig into my palms. My other hand in my pocket ready to call Reno when I can be excused. 

I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to say? She’s hysterical now. Barely able to breath and it cuts me like a knife. 

“Can I go now?” I asked. 

“That’s all you have to say?” My dad’s tone edged. 

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Do you have anything to say to your mother?” Louder. Like the cocking of a gun. 

I don’t have anything to say to her, but I have plenty to say to him. About his false position of power in this family. About the high horse he sits on while he tramples over the rest of us. That maybe he should go away for a while, too. I look over at my mother, hiding her broken eyes behind her hair and hands. “She can’t even look at me,” I clenched my teeth, “What am I supposed to say? She can’t even  _ look _ at me right now?”

“Bastian,” she sobbed, “leave him alone!”

My father threw his hands in the air, “I can’t fucking  _ win _ in this family!”

She removed her hands, her face red from the tears and red from the fire that burned in her. And I thought about how red was the color I felt when I kissed Reno. And I want to be with him and not here, in this kitchen, in this house. Or on this island. 

“Can I please go do my homework now?” I pleaded. 

“No, we need to sit down and discuss this as a family.”

“I don’t want to talk,” I looked at the ceiling, because I couldn’t stand the sight of them. “I want to do my homework.”

“You’re mother leaves tomorrow-”

I stopped listening. 

I walked away to a familiar tune of my parents shouting voices. As my mother defended my actions and while my father condemned. I locked myself in my bedroom. And I was so broken, I didn’t even call my boyfriend to come put me back together. 

He showed up anyway, when our houses were silent, and he brushed my strands of hair with his fingers, and told me that everything will be okay. That this was for the best. 

My mom left the next day, due to be out the door by 6:30am. My dad was going to go down with her to Florida, drop her off at the center, then immediately fly back. My mom insisted I not be present; her attempt at protecting me. She hugged me, her tiny arms crushing my ribs, and I realized how short she was compared to me now. Her head under my chin. She gripped me like it was the last time she would ever see me, and I wondered if it was. They were running late because she refused to let me go. And I kept shaking my head because I could smell the alcohol on her. 

She made promises. 

And I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’ve heard this all before.

When I was eight and ten and thirteen. 

She told me how much she loved me. That things will be different now. 

She released me finally when the chill in my dad’s voice became impossible to ignore. And she couldn’t keep the tears from falling when she exited the house. 

“Are you okay alone?” he questioned, his tone prickly as we never addressed the argument the night before. 

“Reno’s at the back door already,” I said. 

He hands me money, “Why don’t you get him some real pizza tonight.”

I narrowed my eyes, “You assume he’s coming over later?’

“He’s always over.” 

I shrugged, not really acknowledging that fact. My friends are usually always over. 

“Things are going to change around here,” his voice attempted to come off commanding. 

And I managed to hide the smile. “Whatever.” 

My dad slammed the door on the way out. And I swore I heard glass breaking from somewhere in the house; another portrait perhaps. Poetic. I went to the back door to let Reno in- the red-head leaning against the wall of my house, smoking a cigarette, and looking at his home across the way with a venomous expression that shifted when he turned to me; eyes sparkled against the new morning snow. 

“ _ Things are going to change around here _ ,” I mocked my father. 

Reno smirked, “God, if I had a nickel.”

“Thought there was no God?” 

He flicks his cigarette into a pile of ice, “Not here, no,” he grabbed my face, his gloves cold, and pulled me into a rough kiss, “just us.”

I thought about cutting school again. Taking over the empty house like we did on his birthday. Thinking back, maybe we should have. My dad was finally right about something: things are going to change around here. 

Hard not to notice the stares at school as the month wore on. A slow burn, though. But we stopped sharing lunch together as a result. He hung close to his Shinra buddies, I remained alone in the bathroom. Back to the original routine. Then we did away with some of the after school visits. He needed to go to the gym, practice for baseball. I found alternative ways home and sat in my basement playing video games or guitar until he called after 9pm to talk. I’d be sitting in the balcony upstairs while he hung half way out his window so we could capture glimpses of each other. 

And even with him a yard away, he spoke with the same morose tone as when he went to Tennessee. And I should have known, he felt just as far. When I tried to get answers for why he sounded blue, he would snap like a rabid dog. To back off. I found myself pinching my lips shut; and it was starting to hurt. 

But the weekends became a welcome reprieve. The Seph Incident blared a negative light on the Saturday night activities of the Staten Island youth. And considering six members of the baseball team were involved in such a infamous event, the school stepped in- anyone in sports caught at parties with underage drinking and especially with drugs, instant expulsion. Parents panicked. Curfews enacted. 

But with Reno and I literally sharing a backyard, those rules didn’t exactly apply to us. My dad didn’t mind Reno’s company in our house- and his parents' willing ignorance towards their older sons activities- meant we were able to continue our relationship, in the privacy of my home, without the peer pressure or FOMO. 

It wouldn’t last long though. I had a feeling at the Staten Island Saint Patrick's Day Parade, during the first weekend of March. We met up early with my friends, and Rude who still thought he had a shot with Tifa. Reno had been distant that whole week, I didn’t see home once after school. Tryouts were that Monday, and I knew how important it was to get his arm prepared. And now, with Sephiroth benched, they needed another excellent player. I put on the supportive boyfriend hat, even when I felt rejected during school when he barely acknowledged me and a bit jilted when he missed a phone call. But he made up for it that whole weekend. 

I don’t even think he went home once. Slept in my bed those two nights. Running home when day broke to grab more clothes and make an appearance. And I didn’t ask why the shift? And didn’t tell him that dramatic change in tone was jarring. 

And on the day of the parade, Reno wore his fitted leather jacket and a Boston Celtics shirt- and I cracked a joke about him being from Massachusetts in a past life. I had a Dropkick Murphys top over a black thermal. Cid and I used green hair spray in our blonde hair, that gave us clover colored streaks in our hair. It looked terrible. The bagpipes roared. Drunk fathers stumbled in and out of the bars that lined the street. We stood on Forest Avenue, behind our group of friends. A little warped from the booze we consumed at some guy’s house where we pregamed. 

To my surprise, Reno reached over and pulled at one of the standing green strands of hair. “Nice hair,” he grinned. My heart fluttered when he touched me. And I returned his smile. He dropped his hand, shoving both in his pocket, “We look like Christmas.”

Cautious, I pretended to flick a piece of dust from his own spikes of red. He didn’t tense. Or flinch. His cheeks warmed, and not from the alcohol. And he chuckled so soft I almost didn’t hear him over the sounds of a parade. “That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me,” I joked. 

He rolled his eyes back to our friends. He curled his lips in and almost like the mask shifted, I saw the flash of sadness. “I can’t wait for the day I get to hold your hand whenever I want.”

“Me to.” I nod. 

Now I understand what he meant when he said:  _ it’s not going to be easy being kept a secret. _

Because it was becoming impossible. 

And I knew from the chill that descended around us, things were going to have to be different. 

I hate it.

* * *

Sephiroth returned to school. Still bruised, but not broken. His smile dripped with poison as he traversed the halls with girls on his heels, asking if he needed help. Scarlet, also in track two, became his note taker. And I assume something more, from how she walked with him from class to class. Head held high. Her straight blond hair dancing down her back as she walked next to him. Cissnei unfortunately got stuck with them, holding Sephiroth’s books for him while Reeve held Scarlets, both shuffling behind them like wounded puppies.

I would stand by my locker with Cid and Barret, the three of us just shaking our heads at the spectacle. And when they were distracted, I would turn behind me where Reno and his group congregated. Reno’s back against a locker, eyes focused on the window across from him. Rufus bitching about something to Tseng as the group walked past them. Rude and Elena hovering around. Reno, as the weeks progressed, had a broken look on his face. I noticed his friends would direct their conversations to him- and he would shrug in response, or grunt. His eyes never leave the clear glass in front of him. And I couldn’t see his eyes, but I imagined they would glow under the sun; like when he looks out the open window of my room while black smoke drifts from his lips. 

I couldn’t help myself. My lingering stare on his form. Uniform a mess. And like he could feel my eyes, he moved his own towards me. Swallowed something that wished to pierce his tongue. And then he and his group leave. 

I never told him how this simple rejection was like dynamite to my self-esteem. Coupled with his lack of attention during the classes. His abandonment from our lunch meetings. Even physics. All business. The quiet jokes a thing of the past. I dove into the margins of my notebook and wrote all the synonyms for sad as if it helped. And then pathetic scribbled in black ink, and that’s exactly how I felt. 

And I held those feelings like a gun in my chest. Because I could tell he was stressed over something from our tense phone conversations and I didn’t want to be a burden. But it all boiled over the surface by the end of the week. After feeling his absence for days, we talked on the phone. And I wanted to ask him why he suddenly couldn’t hop the fence and smoke some weed and have a face to face conversation with me. I leaned against the balcony railing, on the cold floor, smoking a menthol. I could see him from his bedroom. The orange light illuminating his form while he sat on his window sill, looking away from me. 

I asked how his day was.

I got a fine.

I asked how practice and tryouts were going.

I got another  _ fine _ with more of an edge than I liked. 

I asked what was wrong?

And this time he snapped, “I’m  _ fine _ . Jesus Christ.”

“I swear, if you say fine one more time, I’m going to lose it,” I bark back. 

I watch him throw his hands in the air. “What do you want me to say?

“I want you to tell me what’s been going on with you the last few weeks.” I counter. He shakes his head. “You’ve been avoiding me-”

“I’m not avoiding you,” he shouts, “shit. I see you  _ all the time _ .”

“You don’t talk to me.”

“I’m talking to you right now!”

But that’s not what I meant. He hasn’t asked about my mom in a week, when that was a constant conversation. Making sure he remained up to date with her progress and how that was affecting me. I longed for the weekends where I laid my head on his lap while he ran his fingers through my hair, and told me how proud he was that my mom went to rehab to make herself better. And would calm my protests of her repeated failures. He hasn’t checked in on my school work, which I know isn’t his responsibility. But my motivation started to wane without him. And I just wanted to know  _ why _ . 

“You know what I mean,” I grumble. 

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“You’re not going to sit there and tell me you haven’t been distant the last two weeks. You’re not going to make it out like I’m the crazy one. I get it, you don’t even have to tell me. I know we are getting looked at differently at school. I know why you stopped spending time with me at lunch, or driving me, or even acknowledging me in any of the classes. But I don’t understand why you’re so cold, right now.” I feel my heart shrivel in my rib cage. 

He doesn’t say a word immediately. I look at him, his elbow propped on his knee and fingers in his red hair. He lets out a sigh. “It’s nothing.”

“You sound like a fucking girl.” And I know that’s a nerve.

He jerks back, “Fuck yo-”

I hang up the phone. Jump up and see him staring at his phone, probably cursing at it, before looking over at my yard. I flip him off as I stomp back inside, slamming the door behind me that it shakes the entire house. And I just hope my dad’s engrossed in the basketball game he’s watching downstairs, that he doesn’t try to investigate. 

My phone starts vibrating again. And I pick up, not really knowing if it’s the fight I want or the conversation. 

“That’s fucking mature, Cloud,” Reno’s voice peirces the phone. 

“If you’re not going to talk to me, what’s the point?”

“I am talking!” He exclaims, his voice cracking ever so slightly that I feel a ping of regret. 

“You’re talking but not sayin’ anything.”

“How  _ poetic _ .”

“You can’t avoid this,” I huff, “I know you don’t like talkin’ about shit, but you’re acting different and I don’t know  _ why _ .”

The pause on the other end screams. But he just responds with. “How many times do I gotta say  _ it’s nothing  _ until you drop it?”

“It’s not nothing,” I whisper and hate the way my voice crumbles. 

I wonder if this is how my parents' fights started. One withholding information while the other tries to pry it out of their throat. It feels as fruitless. He doesn’t say anything. And I can’t tell if he’s my mother in this role, and I really don’t like the idea that I’m anything like my father. So I lock up everything in my chest. 

“Are you going to come over tomorrow?” I ask, trying to divert the subject. 

“I can’t,” he responds, “I have shit I gotta do.”

I let out a bitter laugh, “Of  _ course _ you do.”

“I can’t fucking  _ win _ with you tonight,” he mumbles. And now he sounds like my dad and I bristle with anger. 

“You’re giving me shit to work with, so I guess you can’t.”

A silence that rocks the foundation embraces the call. I pinch the bridge of my nose when the headache from my clenched jaw makes an appearance. I can also hear Reno struggling to find something to say; harsh breaths. Almost like he’s opening his mouth to give me something to hold on to, but stapling his lips shut just as fast. I wonder if I should just tell him that his sudden withdrawal adds insult to injury paired with my mother’s departure and the questioning looks flung at me during school. That he isn’t the only one of us that’s clearly going through something. But I ask. He doesn’t. 

“I have to go,” he utters. 

I roll my eyes and my smile feels like razor blades. “Bet you do.”

“Gonna keep givin’ me shit?”

“Whatever, Reno.”

“Yeah, whatever, Cloud.”

He hangs up first this time. And I pretend he didn’t say my name like it blistered on his tongue. 

So, I lay in bed. And think about how only a week ago, when I had him shuddering underneath me and rolling his eyes back just from the friction from our bodies, and he said my name like it held all the secrets of the universe. 

* * *

I woke up to three missed calls. One voicemail.  _ I know you don’t sleep so answer your phone. Fuck-- I love you, you know that right?” _

The desperation in his voice made my heart rumble back to life. But when I called him back, I got his voicemail. I hung up the phone. I didn’t want to speak to the machine. I waited an hour, hoping he would call back, but the minutes ticked away the crushing silence. So I called one more time. This time I left a voicemail:  _ We really need to talk.  _ Pause, I _ love you too. _

Nothing. 

I wait for my dad to leave for golf. Or whatever he does on Saturday’s now that my mom is gone. Our strained relationship hits an all time low since he returned from the airport. We never spoke. Not over stiff dinners at the table. Leftover Chinese or pizza. The occasional home cooked meal we received from Tifa’s mother once she found out. He didn’t even ask how school was going. The one comment he made, surprised that Reno hasn’t been around. And I wanted to punch him in the jaw for even bringing that up. I don’t know whose silence is more devastating: Reno or dad. 

Once my dad leaves, I go to my backyard. Sit on the rusted white chair that faces the red-heads house. The cloudy day casting muted shadows along the white brick. The entire house dark- he’s not home. And I try not to feel lost. I pull out a joint to smoke my troubles away. Hiding fractured eyes behind sunglasses that I don’t need. Or I do need. Every inhale rips through my throat, and the pain alleviates the turmoil that destroys me from the inside. And I think of all the synonyms for alone. 

I look at my phone again. 

The time stares back. 

I wonder when I became this other guy who needs constant attention. But I open the phone and text him- promising myself this will be the last time I reach out today. 

**Wat ur doin rly fuckin suxs. I dun no wat u want from me n e more.**

Something wet in my eyes. Why does this hurt so much and how can I make it go away for good? 

Sneakers approaching shatters the silence. But I know from the aloof walk the owner of the sound. And I’m glad I’m hiding these glass eyes behind sunglasses. 

“Yo, fucker,” Sephiroth walks over to me, yanks another white lawn chair over and helps himself to a seat. This scene seems familiar. Except there’s a frigid breeze that carries the smell of rain and snow. Like it doesn’t know if it wants to be winter or spring. And I’m wearing a black hoodie with  _ Korn _ across the chest- not my favorite, because that one currently remains with my boyfriend- and black jeans that lack holes. But I feel as vacant as I did at the end of summer.

“Guess who got his car back, finally,” he smirks. 

I shake my head and pass him the joint, “The luck you have makes me sick.”

He shrugs, “Yeah, but you’re the one who reaps the benefits.”

I look over at him. Seph’s sitting up, shifting uncomfortable in his seat, winces of pain flash across his face everytime he moves. I take some satisfaction in his distressed look. “And how do I reap anything you sow?”

“I’m here to drive you around, aren’t I?” he passes the joint back.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t have to. You looked like shit the last week.”

I don’t like that he took notice. Surprised, actually, that he even acknowledged my expression in the first place. “Don’t feel like goin’ anywhere,” I take the joint back, “and since when do you care?”

“This shit again,” he leans back slowly, gritting his teeth until he’s comfortable, “I knew I should have taken a whole pill.”

“Still on that?” I ask, “it hurts that much?”

“I fractured a rib, bro, yeah it fucking hurts!” He snaps, then takes a quick look around the yard. At the scattered chairs, copper tables that should be white, the closed pool with the cover coming undone- displaying the toxic green water that ripples against the wind. “Where’s your best buddy?”

“Cid has a lacrosse game,” I say in a flash, “Or did you mean Barret? He’s visiting his grandparents.”

A slow chuckle leaves his lips, “I mean Reno.”

I bless the glasses on my face that don’t reveal how tight my eyes become. But curse the reaction. The way everything seems to dispel. Like it falls into a black hole. Stretches out and then turns to dust. I count the synonyms for numb. 

“Don’t know,” I pull out a cigarette, “gym? Practicing for baseball.”

Sephiroth grumbles, “Don’t mention baseball to me.”

And I smirk as I light the cigarette. His suffering distracts me from my own issues; but I note the  _ sad _ truth of our friendship. We enjoy each other’s pain. And maybe that’s why he’s sitting near me, now demanding I give him one of my cigarettes, because I’m the only other friend in his life doing worse off than him. So, I hand him one of my menthols, noting out loud that he must really be upset if he’s smoking a cigarette during baseball season. And he tries to kick me in the leg, but yelps in pain instead. 

We sit in silence. He fishes his phone from his pocket and starts looking through his contacts- I’m assuming finding someone better to spend his time. I continue to rage in my head at the lack of sounds coming from my own cell. I stare at the still water of my pool. I notice a cigarette, one I drowned back in the summer, bobbing at the surface, water logged and brown. And wonder how I ever had hope in the first place. When I don’t relate to anyone. And if this dream is turning into a nightmare, just wake me up. 

“Yo,” Sephiroth calls over, “party at Johnny’s tonight.”

I spark another cigarette after I finish the last one. And I recall my first conversation with Reno in his car. “Yeah, that’s what I want to do tonight- go to fucking Johnny’s peice of shit house.”

Seph grits his teeth to stop the laugh. “Yeah but this is the last party. His dad stopped paying the mortgage; he’s gettin’ kicked out.”

I scrunch my face, “Bummer for him.” And even if Johnny spoke too loud and too much and lacked tact, he wasn’t a terrible person. A lost soul amongst other lost souls. That wander the island like ghosts looking for meaning. We’re all phantoms here. 

“They’ll be bitches and hoes,” he stresses. 

“Oh word?” I exaggerate my tone, “you convinced me.”

My phone vibrates in my pants once.

So I know it’s just a text and for some reason, that infuriates me.

I snatch it from my hoody pocket. And scan the words on the screen.

**Well talk tom.**

I think I crack a tooth. From how hard I clenched; or it’s probably in my head. The pain that shoots through my skull a bullet. And I even consider asking Sephiroth for one of his pretty pills to make me feel absolutely nothing. I’ve never felt this frustration before. And think of all the words for fury. 

“Yo. Seph,” I shove my phone back in my pocket, “Actually, I wanna get  _ fucked up _ tonight, bro..”

And his lips stretch far across his face. Canines sharpened. His eyes so dilated they look blackened. Like a vortex. Like oblivion. 

“That’s what I like to hear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever, like, write or draw something and when you aren't looking at it you're like: "Wow such trash. Terrible creator. Throw the whole chapter away" and then you re-read it (or look at it) and you're like: "Wow, this is actually really good. I think it works." Sooo that's how I have been feeling for next three chapters XD I hope you feel the same way about these chapters. I might do more frequent updating since I am starting work in a month and I want to try to get most of the chapters out before I may not have time to write any more (heavens forbid!)
> 
> As always, thank you everyone for your comments, your support. I hope I'm not annoying if I respond to each comment because I love talking about the story and some of you are getting so close to guessing things and it's crazy haha.   
> <3<3<3


	25. The Mistakes We Make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jealousy, turning saints into the sea  
> Swimming through sick lullabies  
> Choking on your alibis  
> But it's just the price I pay  
> Destiny is calling me  
> Open up my eager eyes  
> 'Cause I'm Mr. Brightside  
> -The Killers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW  
> Underage drinking  
> Drug use  
> Homophobic language

Aerith used to say:  _ for a quiet guy, you always need to have the last word _ .

Usually, she screamed that during a house party, or in the middle of a street, or in my room after she had to drag me away from the alcohol. And usually this statement followed something vicious and unnecessary that flew from my lips with complete disregard how those words would be received. And as I ran my fingers over the keyboard of my phone, I thought about Aerith’s fractured green eyes. The tears that would fall over her tensed face. And how little satisfaction that gave me. And while I was hurt by the cold response from my boyfriend, I hesitated on reaching into my arsenal and responding with something venomous. 

I close my phone and give him this win. 

Seph, probably not in the best condition to drive, manages to get us to Johnny’s in one piece. And once again, I fail to inform my other friends of my whereabouts. Offering no response to Tifa’s inquiry as to my plans when we park on the desolate street, in front of a small white house with a “foreclosure” sign that mirrors Johnny’s. 

I just unbuckled my belt, when Seph asks the question that’s been pressed against his teeth for the last two months. “So, what’s really going on with you and Sinclair?”

“We’re friends,” I narrow my eyes at him. Add a confused inflection to my tone, as if his question comes out of nowhere. As if forgetting our altercation in my kitchen almost two months ago.

“That all?” I hate the smirk on his face. 

I grip the door handle. Swallow the lump in my throat. I hope that my face remains as blank as the sheets of paper in the book Reno gave me. Because I’m finding it hard to think of happy endings. “Yeah,” I continue before curling my lips shut.  _ Let the false accusers dig their grave _ . But his accusation, or implication, isn’t false..

He shifts his hazel eyes to the front window. Drags his tongue over his impossibly sharp bottom teeth. “Heh,” he nods, “you know I can’t be friends with a guy who sucks dick.”

My eyes fall from his form. My heart crumbles like my eighth birthday cake; after he slammed my face into the frosting and laughed with the rest of my tormentors. The childhood devastation of being formally rejected by the boy I idolized for a cheap laugh. 

I feel his eyes back on me. I’m strangled by his gaze. 

But my body quakes with pent up anger. My jaw locking. Saliva building up like I’m about to vomit.

But I nod that all away. Something has to give. 

I let out a light chuckle, “What? Afraid there’d be no dick left for you?” I snap my eyes at him. His head cocked to the side. Like he’s shocked. 

He laughs. One that rumbled from his stomach. Like I just told him a joke. 

My guard slips, I look away shaking my head with a perplexed smile on my face.

His fist smashes against my throat.

And all the air in my lungs expels.

I hack up empty breathes trying to find oxygen. Heaving and gripping my neck 

I look at him, red faced, tears in eyes. 

He cracks his neck, body shuddering from the effort, and his eyes darken, “Careful, Cloud. Don’t make me bruise that pretty face of yours.” He opens the door, throwing me one more look, “it’s the only thing girls like about you.” He slams the door shut, leaving me alone in his hand-me-down white Lexus that he cares about more than me. 

I recall my eight birthday again while I sit in the car trying to catch my breath. And remember after scanning the sea of sinister children with their gross smiles, I turned and punched Sephiroth. Blood exploded from his nose. He cried. And the laughter died. And I felt satisfied until a week later, he kicked me down a flight of stairs, and stared down at me with a smile that told me everything I needed to know about him. 

I’m so full of every rejection. I know I’m about to explode.

* * *

Sephiroth left me. Instantly. I’m not really sure why he bothered inviting me in the first place, if he was planning on linking up with a bored Genesis and a pitiful Kadaj in the kitchen. I enter the house. There’s plenty of people from my school here; some from New Dorp, which puts me on edge at the possibility of Tifa or Vinny showing up. I shove my hands in my hoody pockets, walking through the crowd of people as if completely out of place. Which, no, I am out of place. Why am I even here? In a fit of desperation, I jumped in a car with my own bully, just to drown myself in alcohol. To fill a void kicked open by my boyfriend’s absence.

Aerith’s words crack through my brain again.  _ Do better _ . 

I want to, but it hasn’t been easy. 

I’m about to back out. Grab my phone and call my friends. 

When I see him

And I have to wonder if Sephiroth planned this. 

Reno leans against the wall, wearing  _ my _ blue and gray flannel over a white v-neck, and smiling down at a tiny blonde girl that I recognize as Elena from the dramatic use of her hands as she speaks to him. He’s moving into her, smiling in a way I thought reserved only for me. He whispers something to ear, and she shrieks like a child on a playground, and pushes him. And I remember how Aerith and I flirt. Because Reno takes her hand as if rehearsed. 

And I think about all the walls my fist wants to punch. 

Pretending it’s his face.

Problem with being a guy and no acceptable outlet for our emotions.

_ Boys don’t cry _ .

Especially at a party. With forceful gazes. Waiting for your mask to break. 

But  _ fuck, _ it’s hard. 

Especially when he seems so at peace with his actions. Not a single stitch out of place. How easy for him to drag his hands down her pale arm to elicit a tiny giggle from her lips. Hands that were on me. That touched  _ me _ . And when he whispered that I was all he wanted, was that a lie? 

There’s a weight in my lungs, which still struggles for air, that pulls me into a cold, vacant, hole. Both familiar and strange. I understand why people say they can feel their heart break. Like a crack in my chest. And all the words I want to sling at him die in my mouth; turn to ash and I’m choking.

His eyes move and rest on me. 

Wide. Two cerulean globes shuddering as if rocked by an earthquake. 

He mouths  _ shit _ . And his mask begins to unravel. Elena’s about to turn, but he distracts her with fingers through her hair and a fake smirk. She zombifies in his gaze and I’m even a little impressed at how effortless he makes this look. 

But I can’t watch this unfold. 

I go to move. Into the kitchen my goal- grab some road beers and then drink until I stumble into Vinny’s house. I can’t be here. But I take a step and end up colliding into a much smaller body. Warm liquid that smells like vodka and regret splashes all over us two random comets. 

A gasp, and Cissnei tries to salvage what’s left of her drink that’s not currently on both of us. “Oh no! I’m so sorry!” She exclaims once she brings her big brown eyes on me. She tries to wipe my sleeve with her hand, littering apologies and lamenting about how clumsy, and this is  _ exactly why she can’t be in any sports _ .

“It’s fine,” I assure her, “I wasn’t paying attention.

“No, no,” she waves me off, “I was too busy looking at my shoes.”

With both look down; she’s wearing grey uggs with black leg warmers over tights. Or leggings. A short denim skirt frayed at the ends and fell right at her thighs. And I drag my gaze up and realize when I rest on the Hollister logo on her chest, that I look like an absolute creep. Snap my eyes back to her. She has her head tilted to the side, her faded red curls framing her slender face, with a curious smile etching across. 

I shrug, “What’s up with your shoes?”

“Oh!” She smiles, “They’re new. I’m just really impressed with how I styled them, so I can’t stop looking.”

“Oh..okay.”

“Well, you’re a boy, I wouldn’t expect you to know about  _ fashion,”  _ she eyes my outfit with a frown.

“Got a problem with Korn?” I shove my hands in the pockets of my hoody, “Oh, I see. I don’t think this was an accident at all. This was a hit placed on my hoody.”

“No!’ She giggles, “I definitely wouldn’t waste my alcohol trying to attack your terrible sense of fashion.”

“Ouch,” my lips twitch into a forced smile, which Cissnei returns. Her cheeks turn red. I face Reno for a quick second. His eyes narrowed at me. Elena now snapping her fingers in his face to reclaim his attention. And I think, with as much conviction as Kyrie’s party where I felt this eruption of alien jealousy, that two can play at this game. And I can play it better. I look back at Cissnei, now twirling her finger through one of the curls. And she isn’t bad looking. Some would even say, she’s  _ cute _ . And while she’s no Aerith, with her statuesque figure, Cissnei looks like someone Cloud would hook up with under the moonlight after one too many. 

I reach over to her hand which holds a red solo cup. And feel the way the small hairs on her skin rise under my touch. And how I need to swallow that sick that threatens to sputter from my mouth. I peer into her drink, “Looks like you sacrificed a bit.”

She huffs, “Wah.” She takes a dangerous step closer, “Say, where’s your drink?”

“Just got here. Was about to head into the kitchen.”

“Well,” she takes my hand, “Why don’t I make you a drink? You know, to make up for ruining such a  _ great _ hoodie.”

I know it’s wrong, but I nod my head.

And I know nothing good will come from this, but I grip her hand and let her drag me towards the kitchen. And put on a smile that suggests, this is  _ fine _ . Even as I flash my eyes at Reno, and the hurt on his face gives me pause. 

* * *

The drink Cissnei creates tastes of gasoline. Cheap vodka mixed with flat soda. But enough sips burn my taste buds and I just allow the stale liquid fall down my throat until my vision blurs. She sits on a counter, her legs swinging, rambling about school. I watch her with feign interest. Nodding when it seems appropriate. School is the only thing we have in common. That and a lack of sports. But she’s in a slew of clubs- yearbook, newspaper, debate. Student council where she’s one of the two junior representatives along with Reeve. She tells me how she wants to run for Student Council president, even though everyone knows Rufus Shinra will win by landslide. Validates my suspicion that the whole system is rigged to favor the more wealthy of our population. 

“It’s bullshit I’m in track three,” she exasperates, “I should have been sorted into track one, for real.”

“Sorted,” I chuckle, “this  _ Harry Potter _ ?”

She unleashes a high pitched laugh and slaps my shoulder playfully, “Oh my god. No. I wish. I would  _ so _ be a Ravenclaw.” She cocks her head and drags her eyes along my face. I’m leaning against the counter, close enough to her legs that I could glide my hands along the black fabric of her tights- if I felt so inclined. And maybe she expected it as she inches towards me. Tapping her finger against her thin, pink lips. “I think you’d be a Hufflepuff.”

“Hm? And what’s their deal?”

“Well,” she takes a sip, her eyes twinkle against the waning kitchen light, “they’re loyal, kind, modest.” I now feel her foot against my jeans, and I flinch at the sudden intrusion. I don’t think I’m any of those characteristics. My skin crawls, but she’s blissfully unaware. “And I think Hufflepuffs have the cutest boys.”

I shift and dare myself to run my fingers along her hand that rests on her lap. And I know she’s smiling through her sips of alcohol. “Well, isn’t that nice of you.” I comment. Try to remember if I was always this terrible at flirting. I take a large gulp of my drink. The buzz rattles through my face. And my cheeks burn from the combination of embarrassment and liquor. And when she captures my traveling fingers with her own, my skin feels so fragile; I swear I’m made of glass. 

A strong hand slams against my shoulder with such force it almost sobers me. I jump back and snap my eyes at the intruder. And Reno stares back with a sly smile and devastated eyes. “Just the guy I was looking for,” he sings with an edge of obnoxiousness that I feel transported back to my first encounter with him. 

Cissnei, on the other side of me, leans close to my ear. “Ugh, he’s a Slytherin.”

Reno returns a glare, “Hi, no one cares.” He turns his attention to me, and I realize his hand still rests on my shoulder. “Rumor has it you’re the kind of guy who can get  _ stuff _ .”

I tighten my jaw, push his hand off me- even though for the moment I felt full again. “What kind of  _ stuff _ ?”

“You know,  _ stuff _ .” He stresses the word and looks into my eyes. Two pearls of ocean blue that fall to my front pocket- which does hold  _ stuff _ \- and then back to me. And I start to pick on what he’s getting at.

I shrug, “Gotta be more specific than that.”

His smile turns painful, like he’s crushing his own tongue. “Come on, you  _ know _ ….” 

I curl my lips and pretend I’m deeply confused by his inquiry. And the frustration from him gives some relief to the anchors in my chest. “Hm,” I cross my arms over my chest and tap my foot, “could you be talking about…” I pause for dramatic effect. Swear he looks like he’s about to knock me out with the way he clenches his fist. “Weed?”

“Yes!” He shouts. Then shifts when a bunch of eyes look at his outburst. Clearing his throat, “Yeah, that.”

Part of me wants to smile at how nervous, cross with angry, cross with aloof he’s trying to act. And adorable is a word I don’t use with sincerity often. But that’s the only word I can find to describe the way his jaw clamps shut and accentuates his handsomes features. His high cheekbones and pinched almond eyes. The parts of him that make him unique. Crumbling now before me. Subtle twitches as he tries to keep himself in charge of the conversation. Adorable. Yes. He looks adorably out of place. 

“No, I don’t,” I respond. His eyes crack first. So I continue, “but I know a guy- I’ll just give you his number-”

“I would much rather you call,” he counters quickly. And his voice falls next; soft yet frigid. “Since he’s your guy.”

Cissnei leans into me again, and I forgot she even existed. “See, Slytherins are cowards.”

Reno bites like a kicked dog, “Wow, literally not fucking talking to you.”

“Hey!” I bark, but wince when I see his flinch at my voice, “don’t talk to a pretty girl like that.” I move into Cissnei, my arm around her back. I hear the giggle and it stabs me in the ear. And I need to remind myself, this isn’t her fault. And she’s just responding to my cues. I’m reprehensible. And Reno, also just responding to the chill in my attitude, falters. Pleading eyes. Lips crash to a frown. Silent cries to ease up. 

So I drag my tongue along my bottom lip and relent. I turn to Cissnei, “I’m going to help him out- you know, since he’s new and all. Why don’t you find Elena and wait for us.” I throw a glare at Reno. “He’s going to smoke all four of us up. Right?”

“You got it  _ buddy _ ,” he growls.

“Awesome,  _ pal,”  _ I retort, returning to the brown eyed girl with the excited smile. “Sounds good?”

“Sounds great!”

I pick her up to help her off the counter, she’s a feather, and note Reno’s tense expression as I linger just a second longer than I need to before she bounces away. Without another word, or look, I head to the broken screen door- Reno on my heels- and yank hard on the knob I almost ripped the whole thing from the hinges. I storm outside. The wind still touched with the hint of snow. Due for a blizzard any day now. And it seems appropriate that a storm brews outside the house as I make a b-line for a shed to hide behind. Going over my lines. Every word I’ve held back against my throat. For fear it would do more harm than good- before I ever anticipated walking in on him  _ flirting with Elena _ . 

I duck behind the broken shed, deep in the backyard and far enough away from wandering eyes. I swing around and face Reno, he’s hands already up in defense. 

“I can explain-”

“Good fucking luck,” I challenge.

“I can  _ explain,” _ he hisses, “later.”

“Fuck you,”

“Do you see how many people are here!”

“I couldn’t give less than a shit. You fucked up.”

His shoulders deflate. “I know.”

“Oh  _ you know _ .”

“Do you think I want to be doing anything of this?” He gestures towards the party. “I don’t even want to be here right now, but I ain’t gotta choice.”

“Everyone has a choice,” I argue back.

And he unleashes a bitter laugh, “No. We don’t.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to add to that sentiment. I’ve talked enough. I’ve begged enough. He sighs like the weight of the world presses against his back, running his fingers through his hair. And I love him, sometimes more that I love myself, but I hate how he shuts down. Turns off. 

“If you don’t fucking start talkin’,” I snap, “this is over.”

“Okay okay!” He takes two steps towards me, but I take one back. “Just chill, yo. I’m trying to think.”

“What is there to think about? Tell me why the fuck you were flirting with Elena!”

“Lower your voice,” he whispers roughly, “Just please. I promise I will explain everything. Let’s just, for now, go back to the party. Get the girls wrecked so they can’t even move. And then we’ll go home and we’ll talk.”

“So we’re going to be assholes and get these girls fucked up? Why?” I question. 

“So…” he shifts on his feet, cringing, “So people think we may have hooked up with them. It….just looks better.”

My eyes wide, “This is incredibly fucked.”

He just shrugs, unable to look at me. “I know. But we don’t have the luxury of pretending these rumors don’t exist, anymore.”

Infuriating how he speaks while saying nothing. And my weak will ruins me. I grumble, “Fine.” And he breathes a sigh of relief. But I’m all tied up; chained like a dog. All these people just running over me. At some point, I need to ask myself if I enjoy feeling so not in control. 

“Do you have any weed?” He asks. His voice stitched with unnatural softness. “It’s gonna look a little weird if we come back with nothing.”

I feel he’s reading too much into soulless expressions. But I pull out the eighth in my pocket. “sixty dollars.”

“You’re going to make me fucking  _ pay _ ?” 

“With that attitude, seventy.”

“You’re going to price gouge me now?!”

I don’t move. My face contorted in anger. He just throws his hands in the air before digging into his pocket and pulling out two twenties. “That’s all I got.”

“You owe me forty dollars.” I slam the 8th in his hands and start walking back, ignoring his protests. 

I should just leave. I keep thinking. I should walk to Vin’s where I’m sure my actual friends are- my friends who won’t offer me a dubious look when I roll in, eyes in turmoil, and lips shut. They’re used to my default look. I play the scenario in my head like I’m giving it a second thought, when I know, as I take a seat outside and send Reno to fetch the girls, that I’m here for the foreseeable future. Because I’m exactly the word I’ve been writing in the margins of my notebooks for weeks.

Reno brings the girls outside. We all take seats around a patch of dead grass where a fire pit used to occupy. I face the broken screen door. The netting on the window coming undone, revealing cracked glass filthy from smoke. Reno puts me in charge of rolling the blunt while he gets beverages; telling me how good I am at that skill with a wary smile. Elena and Cissnei sit across from one another, giggling from the liquor and going on about a reality show they’re both into. 

He walks out of the house just as I finish breaking up the weed. The door screeching close- momentarily allowing the various party noises to break the vacant night. He balances two red solo cups and two beers in his hand.

I had asked for the toxic liquid the girls consume. Reno clearly made other arrangements. And I couldn’t hide the fire when we made eye contact as he handed me the dewey Natty Ice. Watch him as he takes a seat next to Elena. Flinch when her arm brushes against his. And I want to smoke until feelings no longer exist. Until my whole body vibrates from the numb. 

Both girls take a sip and scrunch their faces in unison. “Reno, this is, like, all vodka.” Cissnei protests.

Reno shrugs, “No one ever complains about too much vodka.”

Elena, feeling embolden I presume, takes a large gulp of her drink and fails at trying to hide her disgust. “Tastes fine to me.” She gags before turning in her seat to get closer to Reno. “Thanks for getting us the weed. I told everyone you aren’t  _ that _ much of an asshole.”

“I’m definitely an asshole,” he responds with a chilly tone that doesn’t go unnoticed by the blonde girl; who frowns at the sudden change in his demeanor. 

“Thank Cloud for getting him the weed,” Cissnei argues, “Reno couldn’t even make a phone call.”

I snicker and shoot Cissnei a smile. She blushes and I feel only twenty percent like shit. Ten percent when I see the enraged glare Reno targets on the red-headed girl. 

“Thanks for the shout out, cutie,” I roll up the crumbled weed. Cissnei offers me flirty smiles as I move the brown paper through my fingers. 

“You’re really good with your fingers,” she comments. Reno needs to chug half his beer to stop himself. 

“I play guitar,” I reply.

“Plays guitar, master at rolling blunts, is there anything you  _ can’t _ do?”

“Oh, there’s plenty I can do with these fingers, pretty girl.”

Reno chokes on his beer, spitting some of it out and I can’t help the laugh that rumbles in my throat. He shoots me a warning glare. 

“That’s so gross, Cloud,” Elena scowls. But Cissnei doesn’t seem to agree from the wink she offers. And I definitely feel disgusted with myself. Amused that I have Reno, now, at the edge of his seat with a fragmented expression that shatters across his face. One that mirrored mine when I first walked into the party. But a wave of guilt for his pain boils through me. 

I crush it with the flame of my lighter against the blunt. 

And we exchange a longing look through fire and smoke. 

It doesn’t take long for the girls to devolve into a mess of giggles. Reno heavy handed with the vodka coupled with the intensity of the weed, Elena becomes the first to get the spins. And ends up crawling onto Reno’s lap, much to his chagrin, scream whispering in his ear that she’s not afraid of giving blowjobs. Cissnei keeps fighting for conversation. We have nothing in common. She’s an overachiever, I barely pass with the help of my boyfriend. She has Harvard in her sights. She knits for fun. When I mentioned video games, she grumbled about all boys care about are pussy and xbox. 

Even so, she runs her fingers against my hands and asks if I’ll play guitar for her one day. And I make so many false promises, I forget who I am. Reno’s flirting comes off easier- his girl can’t even keep her head up. Finally, after their third drink, which Elena drops after her first three sips, Reno vanishes into the house. Mumbling something about getting Rude. Elena flopped on the chair about to pass out. 

Cissnei had scooted her chair as close to mine as possible. She’s up against me and she smells like the Victoria’s Secret in the mall. And even with my mind static, I know the meaning behind her leg brushing up against mine. I understand the words that swim across her face when she tilts her head, flashes a small smile. It’s all the same. From Aerith, to Jessie, to even Tifa. Their eyes glowing with teenage want for the sad boy who offers them a blank stare in return. I think about, instead, how they must look the way I do when I’m around Reno. Then, how his name suddenly makes me sad. 

I must have given her a signal because she closes the gap. Her lips on mine and I feel more than just nothing. Empty. That hole in my chest cracks open. 

I jerk back. 

Her brown eyes confused. “Oh, shit,” she slurs, “I’m so sorry!”

Echo of the slamming door snaps my attention from her pleas for forgiveness. Reno looks between the two of us, and I can’t tell if he saw what happened, or he suspects from the words cascading from her mouth. 

“Rude’s gonna give us a ride,” he announces before walking to the half dead Elena and gathering her in his arms. “If ya’ll want to bounce, now's your chance.” He shoots me a pained expression. I nod in the affirmative. Cissnei still mumbles apologies as she tries to rise from her seat. Nearly tumbling over, but I offer my hand and help her.

The four of us leave through the side, Rude already next to Reno’s BMW with an annoyed look cemented on his face. We throw the girls in the back seat, Cissnei with tears flooding her eyes from the combination of liquor, weed, and rejection. Elena half awake, notices her friend and hugs her with the strength of a snake while threatening to murder the one responsible. So I’m super excited to sit in the back seat with them. 

Both are crashing at Elenas. The fifteen minute drive consisted of them flying into me because they refuse to put on seat belts. Then both crying over their fathers. Expression of their mutual need to vomit everywhere. Cissnei collapses on my lap, Elena practically on top of her, both snoring louder than any guy I’ve ever met. And I’m trying really hard not to judge, because I am 99 percent sure this has happened to me and Cid on more than one occasion. But I’m ruffled. Shooting glares at Reno from the backseat, who's busy having a quiet argument with his cousin. 

We pull in front of Elena’s mansion at the end of Todt Hill Road. Reno turns in his seat and actually tries to stop himself from laughing. Even when I narrow my eyes at him ready to pounce. 

He pokes Elena, “Yo, Elena. Wake up, we’re here.”

She groans, “Where?”

“Your house. Let’s go. You need to sleep it off.”

She opens her eyes and shifts closer to Cissnei. “You can come inside,” she purrs, reaching over to grab his hand as an invitation, “show you my bedroom. I’ll be  _ so quiet. _ ” Girl can’t even keep her eyes open. 

“Right, you’re drunk and that’s rape so,” Reno cringes, “I’m good.” He looks at me, “You grab yours, I’ll grab mine.”

Without a word I fling open the door with complete disregard for his car. Drag Cissnei out and throw her small body over my shoulder. Reno manages to get Elena out, but she’s trying to make out with him so it’s like fighting off an aggressive dog while dragging her towards her house. And this all would have been amusing if I wasn’t playing the inevitable fight in my head. We manage to get them both inside. Drop them on the couch in the living room. Look at their drunken, broken, forms. And I think bitterly, with a curl in my stomach, had it not been Reno and I, what would the other boys in the school do with this scene. 

The fight starts as soon as we slam the door of the car when I tell Rude to drop me home first. That he can take Reno wherever the fuck he’s staying. Reno counters with a weak argument that we need to talk. 

I can’t even recall what was said in the fit of anger. Just mindless yelling at one another. I’m being unreasonable and won’t let him defend himself.

He has the absolute audacity because I’ve given him days to talk. 

I’m being dramatic.

He’s being a fucking asshole. Which I called him about three times because I can’t think of any other synonyms when I’m this fucking high. 

Rude stops the car short, almost sending me into the passenger seat. “Yeah, I’m going to walk home. You two sound like my parents right now,” he throws his cousin a look, “you fix your shit. Stop dragging me into this already.” He leaves the car, not even bothering to turn it off. I admire how his cool tone counteracts the venom in his words. Now Reno has two people pissed at him. 

We’re down the block from my house, so I just get out of the car with Reno frantically trying to get into the drivers side. He rolls down the window while creeping next to me. 

“Don’t play this game with me, Cloud, get in the car.” He shouts. 

I laugh. “Nah, bro, I’m good on that.”

“Jesus Christ, do you realize how fucking ridiculous you are being right now?”   
  


“I’m ridiculous? I’m the one who’s acting ridiculous?” 

“Shit, lower your voice, why are you so goddamn loud?”

“I’m from New York, we’re all fucking loud!” I shriek till my voice cracks and I want to kick something across this island. 

“Calm-”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down. I’ll fucking knock your side view mirror straight off your shit car.”

A memory hits me across the face. Three broken side view mirrors down New Dorp Lane while the sun rises over Hylan Boulevard. My knuckles bloodied and bruised. And this happened so many times, I can’t even recall which day this was. 

Reno’s voice jars me from my thoughts. “You want to talk. Get in here so we can talk!”

“I wanted to talk two weeks ago! Where the fuck were you?”

He pulls over. And I stop as if on command. He’s staring at the steering wheel. Shaking his head, dragging his tongue over his teeth with a defeated sigh. I notice the way his eyes now glisten against the yellow light from the street lamps that line my block. 

“Please,” his voice like broken glass, “I don’t usually beg, man. But I’ll beg if that’s what you want.”

I am molten rage. Hot like lava. But the surrender in his voice cools me for a moment. Long enough to get into the passenger seat with the sound of the slamming door causing him to flinch. I can’t look at him like this; my eyes rest on my dirty converses instead. I’ll give up the last bit of my conviction if I dared. We sit in silence. I know he’s wrapping his head around the words he needs to say to keep me rooted to this relationship. And I’m wondering why I am giving him enough slack to hang himself with.

“My parents went through my phone,” he begins, “I made your contact ‘sugar baby’ as a joke, but our texts were enough to make my parents suspicious. They...freaked out on me. Asking me who the fuck you were. If you were a girl. I told them that you were a girl from school. They want to meet ‘you’. They want to make sure. They know I spend a lot of time over at your place. They’re not that fucking stupid. I had to…” he takes a sharp breath, and I hear the sadness grow in his throat, “Elena is fucking annoying, but the girl is easy to impress. But even when I went to hit on her, she looked at me  _ different _ .

“We haven’t been subtle,” he continues, “Rude’s been warning me for months. Your bitch ass friend making that  _ boyfriend _ comment raised a few eyebrows. Only so many times we can just say it’s a joke. Guys can be friends to a certain extent, ya know. Especially when both of us come into this with rumors.”

Now I look at him. He’s leaning against the driver’s seat, eyes wet and resting on me. 

“It was, like, the first thing Rufus said when I asked about you… ‘you mean that faggot, Cloud?’ That’s what he said.” the word stings when it leaves his lips, “this is going to sound real shitty, but that’s kinda how I knew I could flirt with you.” 

“And here I thought you had impeccable gaydar,” I respond bitterly.

“Well I do,” he says with a sorrowful smirk. “But I wasn’t trying to rely on that after what I went through.” He shrugs and looks away. “It wasn’t just you. Myspace fucking sucks ass. I deleted it but not before some people saw the comments my former friends left.”

“Why couldn’t you tell me this?” 

“I…” he pauses, “I don’t know. Couldn’t find the words? Shit, Cloud, I’m really not good at this.” I don’t know if he thinks his inability to explain himself is going to get him off the hook, but I just stare at him, waiting. I’m not buying it this time.

“I didn’t want things to change,” he says finally. 

“Things did change,” I clench my teeth, “and you gave me nothing.  _ Nothing _ . How long did you think you could keep this from me? Do you know how small this island is? Did you think I  _ wouldn’t find out _ about Elena?”

“Tonight was literally the first night I spoke to her like that,” he argues and I shoot him an unconvinced look. He doubles down. “I swear. I haven’t flirted with her since Kyrie’s party. Since we started getting serious. I just need people to  _ think _ we’re hookin’ up. I just need my parents to meet her and  _ think _ she’s my girlfriend.” 

“That’s never going to fucking work,” I’m in between laughing and shouting at the sheer stupidity of his plan. “She’s into you, babe, so fucking into you.”

“You know she means absolutely nothing to me, right?”

I resent the edge in his voice. The scowl on his face. 

This aura of self-righteousness. 

“That’s real fucked up.”

And maybe he’s thinking the same thing about me.

“How different is this from what you did?”

“It is different,” I snap, “I stopped that shit when I met you.”

He shifts in his seat so he’s facing me completely. Leaning over the middle console. And with an even tone so devoid of life, it startles me, “And I really appreciate that. And I wish it could just be me and you. But if my parents even hear the whisper of me being involved with a guy, you will never see me again.” 

“Wha-What do you mean by that?” I knit my brows together when I look at him. His eyes petrified. Two stones threatening to fall. 

“You think I care if anyone from this shit school knows I’m gay?” He sounds almost offended, “I’ve been out before, babe. Heard  _ that word _ every fucking day. I ain’t even scared of being attacked. I learned to fight a long time ago- had to. But if my parents find out, they will send me away. They’ve already threatened me with it twice this week.

“It’s the only reason Elena is even involved. I need them to get off my back.”

“Where does that leave me?” I shake my head, “how are you going to juggle a boyfriend and girlfriend? You can’t.”

“No, I can,” he stresses, “Because Elena isn’t my girlfriend, okay? She’s just some chick I hang out with-”

“And fuck?”

“We haven’t done that!” 

I wince at how he raises his voice. “You can’t keep this dual life up. We’ve barely made it five months together.”

“And we’re going to make it. I told you, you’re-”

“The endgame, right,” I roll my eyes, “you shit on my lines, but fuck do you weaponize yours. What do you want me to say? Do I want you to be sent away? Absolutely, fucking, not. But it doesn’t look like we can avoid that if we stay together.”

“We’re not breaking up.” 

I laugh, running my fingers through my hair like I’m going to rip it out. “Okay. So. Let me see if I understand your train of thought here: You and I stay together. But you see Elena on the side so your parents don’t figure out your gay and send you away forever.”

“Yeah...pretty much.”

I give him an incredulous look. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

“I don’t beg.” he’s closer to me. I can feel the coldness of his breath. “I haven’t begged for shit. But I love you- every part of you- and I believe we have a future. But if you can’t do this and you need to bail. I get it. But I’d rather you didn’t.”

I rest my body against my chair, turned towards Reno. I examine the lines of his face. How much older he looks now in the fantastic midnight. Blue light drenches his skin. Illuminating those two eyes surrounded by darkness. He glides his arm over, And like possessed I allow him to take my hand. His skin so cold from the waning winter chill, it feels like metal. 

“Give me till my 18th birthday-” He continues but I cut him off. 

“A year?”

“Eleven months. We did five, we can do eleven.”

I drop my eyes to our intertwined fingers. How they fit. “This is a big ask.” 

“I know. But I can leave my family behind then, and I will, I have to.” He takes my face in his hands so I am forced to look at him. “I promise.”

I want to tell him not to make promises he could have no chance in keeping. 

It just reminds me of my mother. Everything about this reminds me of my parents. They were young in love. Thought they understood the entire world and its beautiful complexities. 

But I don’t say anything. Because my tongue swells and my mouth won’t open. Instead, I allow his lips to graze against mine.

And his kiss robs me of my resolve. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-Oh Spagetti-o!  
> I won't say much but love all the feedback I am getting, definitely, as I've said in replies, it helps me.   
> Also, I don't know if you noticed, but the summaries have been song lyrics. I love mixing music with writing with art. Always, since I first started writing (in fact the original had a terrible chapter where I mention My Chemical Romance like 13 times it was, uh, bad) Anyway, these songs are all release around the time the story takes place and HOW COULD I NOT include Mr. Brightside by the Killers, like one of the EMO anthems.   
> I need to find away to sneak I'm not OKay in there.   
> I do have a Cleno playlist on my Spotify, I don't know how to link it here. I know it's like HTML, but I'm old. haha
> 
> As always, let me know what you think!!! <3


	26. We Keep On Making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get outta my head 'cause I don't need this, why didn't I see this?  
> But I'm a victim, Manchurian candidate  
> I have sinned by just  
> Making my mind up and taking your breath away  
> I've felt the hate rise up in me  
> Kneel down and clear the stone of leaves  
> I wander out where you can't see  
> Inside my shell, I wait and bleed  
> -Wait and Bleed//Slipknot-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW  
> -Drug abuse  
> -Underage drinking

We didn’t end our night on the highest of notes. And my reluctance to the new terms of our relationships evident on my face from the frown when I left his car. So, I wasn’t entirely surprised when Reno showed up on my doorstep the next day, in my favorite black hoodie, looking as apologetic as ever. 

“I know usually when a guy messes up they bring flowers,” he started, hands in his pockets, “but you don’t seem like the kinda guy who likes that shit.”

“You’re not wrong,” I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest and blocking access to the currently empty house. 

“That’s why I got you something better.” He pulled out weed with a warm smile on his face- proud of his actions. I shrug and offer a blank nod. “And that’s not it!” He reveals from the other pocket a pack of my brand of cigarettes. My heart betrayed me and melted the cold barrier I had placed after I left his car. And only because it reminded me of early in our relationship when he tossed a pack of cigarettes over the fence to get my attention. But I tried to remain chilled. 

“Good start,” I grabbed both items but remained in the doorway. I eyed the hoodie on his body and he grumbled. 

“Come on, babe,” he pouted, actually pouted which startled me, “I look real fucking good in this hoodie; you can’t deny that.”

“It’s mine.”

“Don’t you like when I wear your shit,” his blue eyes twinkled against the afternoon sun. “It’s like I have a part of you always.”

“Wow,” I extended my hand out, “now that’s a fucking line, bro. Give it.”

He cursed under his breath as he unzipped the hoodie, and I swear he knows me too well and planned this. Under the jacket, he’s wearing the Halloween shirt I gave him for Christmas, and I’m not sure if it shrunk by the way it hugs his body, I can see the lines of muscles from under the fabric. He’s fit from practicing for baseball season almost everyday- and at least that’s one thing he told the truth about. He places my article of clothing in my hand, but I’m too busy staring at him, I almost dropped it and I have to scramble to regain my composure. And hoped he didn’t notice the sound I made in my throat when my eyes scanned his form. 

“Also!” he continued with a sly smirk now present, “I’m going to take you on a real date.” I narrowed my eyes at him and watched him falter at my lack of enthusiasm. “ _ Constantine  _ is still in the theaters, I know you really wanted to go see that.”

I arched an eyebrow, “So, wait. You tell me that we need to chill on our relationship because everyone’s talkin’ shit, but now you want to take me to a movie?”

He paused with a cringed, “Well, I figured we go to New Jersey-”

“Oh wait, so you wanna take me across state lines, to a shitty fuckin’ state, so no one can see us? Wow, such romance.”

“You know, when you’re pissed your accent comes out and it’s really cute.” His laugh weighed down by nerves. He cleared his throat when I didn’t share in his amusement. “Or, or, we can stay in and watch all those horror movies you’ve been wanting to show me. You can tell me all about German expressionism-” He paused waiting for me to be impressed by his memory. “Or, zombie marathon? I’ll order the food and pay for literally everything.”

“You’re trying to bribe me now?” I put the hoodie on, tried to hide the smile when I smelled his cologne. 

“Well, you said you wanted to be a sugar baby when you grew up; startin’ early.” He mocked right back. 

I grunted, “Don’t think you have that kinda money.”

“Cloud,” he said with a harsh tone, “What do you want me to do? Do you want me to come in and talk or do you want me to leave? Because I’ll fuck off right now.”

I wanted to tell him how I’m not used to being on this side of an argument. I’m used to standing in the doorway with peace offerings and promises. And I knew as they fell from my lips how full of shit I was. That next weekend those mistakes would be repeated, in fantastic fashion. I want to tell him that ignoring the situation got us into this mess in the first place and just pretending like nothing happened won’t change anything. That our conversation in the car did  _ nothing _ to quell any fears. That his stance is shit. He’s changing the rules, again, and my neck hurts from this whiplash. 

But

I’m sixteen. And spent my life teetering on the edge, waiting for something to give me hope for the future. And he does. Standing in that doorway, thumbs in his denim pockets, wearing one of my favorite shirts. Glowing in the hot afternoon sun- the first hints of spring-looking sincere. And I’m prepared already to believe every single lie. 

So I did let him into the house.

Then into my bed. 

Where every kiss tasted black.

Empty. 

Both of us clearly distracted and I don’t even know why we bothered. 

We laid on our backs, staring at the dust on the ceiling. My fucking Super Mario bedsheets, because I’m five, over waists. I sense a clear barrier in the middle of us. Usually we smoke right after. But we just remained frozen in this position. Not daring to touch again. Fearful to look because it will ruin the facade. 

“Did I tell you I made the team?” he said after ten minutes of blank silence. 

“No,” I respond like a cobra- short and venomous. 

“I made the team,” he mumbled. 

“Congrats….I know that was important.” 

“Yeah...we have practice every day after school so, I won’t be around a lot…”

“Yeah, I know,” I sighed, “I understand…”

“We have our first game coming up...you should come…”

“Would look weird. I barely went to any games and my best friend is on the team.” And I think about the frustration of all this ridiculous hiding. Why can’t I just go watch my boyfriend play baseball? Why can’t I have a boyfriend? 

Now I remember why I didn’t want to come out in the first place. 

I heard him grumble. I know he agrees to some extent. 

There were so many things I think we wanted to say; but words were difficult. Instead, he made a move, and laid his head on my chest, and maybe it was muscle memory, but I brought my arm around his body- let him curl next to me as he usually does. His fingers circled the chain I wore around my neck. And for a moment everything seemed normal. A week since we embraced in this way. I missed it more than I realized. 

“You know,” he began, “in ten years- when we are living in Massachusetts together- we’re going to look back on this…” Pause. “Hopefully laugh at how stupid it all was and that it all worked out in the end…”

“You seem so sure we’re going to make it.” I didn’t intend for my voice to sound so vacant. 

His fingers stopped tracing along my torso and he tensed against me. “Nice to be optimistic about something. Can’t be negative all the time.” I looked and he was staring up at me; eyes trying to scan my face for something I can’t place. I brought my hand into his hair; feeling the soft strands through my fingers. I envy his hope in this hopeless situation. I’m exhausted from always feeling dragged down. Or broken from crashing from the high I’ve been on for the last five months. 

Maybe I just wanted to believe in something for a minute. 

“Maybe I’ll write our story. Make millions off it.”

He laughs. “I like that confidence.”

“And the ending, will be us laying in our bed, with our dog-”

“No dogs on the bed.”

“Non-negotiable.”

We share a reluctant chuckle. Reno danced his fingers across my cheek bones, his smile illuminating. “Sounds like a happy ending.”

And this time when I kissed him, he tasted purple. And I felt like pink. The sunset. The painted sky. There’s a hypnotic beauty about a sun chased by darkness. Two halves- opposites- whole for a moment. Like magic. 

I chose blissful hope. 

We showered together-let the heat of the water wash away the doubt- hands on each other like magnets.

We watched  _ Night of the Living Dead _ in my room. And my dad came home eventually with German food, insisting that he needed to show Reno our culture. And they exchanged jabs at one another over pierogies, and bratwurst and schnitzel. He told us he has no culture. His parents are “vanilla white to the worst extent.” and he didn’t know what seasoning was until he had his aunt’s cooking. We ate on kitchen counters and leaning against tables, the three of us. It was the first time my dad and I had a conversation that didn’t end up in a passive aggressive argument. 

And my dad did comment on Reno’s recent absence. And it broke my heart a little. 

But, the supportive boyfriend returned. He lectured me on being there for my mom when she called, after I revealed I haven’t spoken to her since she left. That I couldn’t because it was too hard. But he made me promise I’d try. And smiled when he kissed my forehead. Told me everything I needed to hear to fill in the cracks in my conscience. 

The whole day felt normal. Even with the Sunday blues. School looming and it’ll most likely be a week before he’s in my room, smoking cigarettes out my window and stealing kisses in between drags. 

When he left, I put my hoodie over his shoulders and he pressed his lips on mine like it was the last time he would. 

And this time he felt gray. 

Like a storm. 

And I didn’t want to let him go.

* * *

I wanted to have hope-especially with how assured Reno was. But each day, something, a thread, snapped. When Elena wrapped her arms around his as they walked the halls. And how she attended his practices, sitting on the bleachers- while all I could do was happen to walk passed to grab a forlorn look from beyond a chain linked fence. He tried getting me to agree to go on a double date with Cissnei. And he was doing all the things with a girl he should be doing with me. Which begged more questions than I wanted answers to. And everytime I witnessed something that caused me to unravel, I got defensive.

Hell, by Wednesday, I accused him of fucking her- which he vehemently denied. But in the same breath he started pushing Cissnei on me with more aggression than should be considered normal. Explaining how it looked better if I started seeing a girl. 

There’s too many rumors.

There’s too many expectations.

And it would be so  _ perfect _ since Elena and Cissnei are friends. 

And no. Perfect would be us holding hands in public. And me showing up to his games. And double dates with Aerith and Tseng (or even Rude and Tifa is that ever becomes a thing). And doing all the things society expects us to do with girls with just each other. 

But I know that can’t happen. Not for a long time. 

Even if he keeps saying eleven months like it holds all the answers. What happens after that?

I don’t have hope that we can ever be fully out. 

So I started to lose the rush of optimism, I’ve been holding on to like a drug in my system, for a happy ending. And I knew what I was doing was wrong. The road I chose to cope with this storm of doubt taking over. 

I’m aware. And that makes everything that happened more frustrating.

My excuse, as always, was the lack of people I could speak to about this subject without incriminating both Reno and I. But that’s a lie. I know that’s a lie. I had Aerith, who would find me at lunch with her big green eyes and try to get me to confide in her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t burden her with my next relationship. So I shoved her away, even when I saw the flash of hurt across her face. The rest of my friends were involved in their own sports and clubs and jobs and drama. Cid with lacrosse and Barret started working to save up for a car. My friendship with Tifa strained for months. She noted my distances with a bitter tongue. I resented her for her anger. She hooked up with Rude at the parade, as if it would piss me off, but all it did was make Cid angry. 

A crack in the foundation of the core friend group. Hell, even Vinny backed off- tired of the drama surrounding the lot of us and closed his house down, spending all his time playing video games. 

But these are all fucking excuses. When I can reflect, I can see what I was doing. Justifying my distance from my friends. My real friends. That I continued to use only when I need to pretend to be functional. Who I push away when I need to feel abandoned. Because it justifies all the mistakes I will make, on purpose. Can’t have logic getting in the way of self-destruction. 

And that’s why I seeked out Sephiroth. Who spent his afternoons sitting on the bench, unable to play due to the sore rib, lamenting about his own destruction. Who sat in the cold sun growing more enraged at his life. Half high on pills to keep the pain at bay. Until he could leave. Take the rest of his pills and drift along in between consciousness and black out. And I wanted the taste of being numb. And he was all too happy to sink his claws into me. 

And everyone so distracted by their own shit didn’t notice when I was dragged under water. 

I know I’ve been this way before. 

Like a routine I can’t break.

Fight with my boyfriend nearly every night. Over things I know he can’t control. Hang up the phone and take a half a pill that Seph donated. Chase it with the last of the vodka in the house- convince myself I was doing my mom a favor upon her inevitable return next week. Lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling. Try to ignore the way my cell vibrates against my wood floor. Reno calling back to continue the argument. But my feelings are stagnant like the water in my pool. So I answer, let him lose it. Apologize with a blank tone he doesn’t pick up on- make up. 

Couldn’t even notice if he was starting to worry. 

I don’t even remember what we were fighting about. Or who started the argument in the first place. 

By Friday, he became flustered with my performances, however. He found me in the bathroom, smoking a cigarette out the window. I didn’t acknowledge his presence. And he just stared at me for the duration of my smoke. Up against the stall, arms over his chest, with a perturbed look tattooed on his face. 

He sighed, “I know you’re not happy. I know seeing me with Elena isn’t helping. And I know that I haven’t been around lately just adds to it.” And  _ I know _ my silence hurts him. But I’ve said all I could on the matter. No, I don’t like any of this. But there’s no alternative. He walked over to me, put his arms around my body and his face close to mine. “I love you,” he whispered against my ear, “I love you so much. It’s hard right now, but it’ll be worth it. I promise.”

He kissed along my neck hoping for my attention. But all I think about is the pill burning a hole in my pocket and the other pills Sephiroth will be bringing over later so we can both float through oblivion- while Reno goes on a date with his girlfriend. 

I shoved him away. And I catch the wince across his face. The bell rang, signaling the end of this new dance. I threw away the cigarette into the toilet.. 

“I want to renegotiate the terms of this relationship,” I grumbled on my way out. 

He grabbed my arm suddenly and yanked me against him. His eyes fire. Not from anger. They bore down into me like a volcano. “Don’t give up on me, yet,” he pleaded and his voice was pop rocks and coke about to explode. “I’m figuring it out.” 

I want to tell him to call me when he does. But I lose all ability to stand up for myself when I feel his chest up against mine. He ran his hand up my back and into my hair, where he pressed our foreheads together so I had no choice but look into his eyes. And I know we’re going to be late for our next class- and maybe because we don’t have the same gym, he’s gotten bold- but I’m aware of the risks he seems to ignore when convenient for him. And this time I want to tell him how confused he makes me. That I need to drown myself just to reset. 

I let him kiss me. Slow at first, but he opened his mouth and ran his tongue over my lips. And I followed his lead because I’m weak. I know I’m weak. But I wanted this moment even if it’s fleeting. Falling through my fingertips. And his kiss tasted like the morning before rain. 

I thought about telling him:

That I’m in danger of drowning. And if I don’t get help soon, I’m going to repeat the same mistakes I keep on making. 

But I don’t. Like I suddenly can’t trust him with that information. 

And even later on in the day, with Sephiroth and his smirk and his new set of pills he got from Genesis- because now everyone has the xanax hookup- when I’m noting the fucking  _ irony _ as I stared at the white pill in my hand, how I fucking refused to take this when my name was written on a prescription. But now I’m just  _ dying _ to get this in my system and fall asleep on this lounge chair with my fucking  _ enemy _ chasing his with a six pack of beer. 

I even pulled my phone from my pocket. I thought about texting Reno. Then Aerith. Then Cid. Or Barret. And Tifa. and fuck I really wanted to talk to my mom right about then. And tell her how  _ proud _ I am she is getting help. And that I need her to be an adult now and make me do the same. 

But I did nothing. The device weighed a ton. And instead, I look at the rising moon appearing over his house, with silent tears falling from my broken blue eyes. And wished for a minute that I took a little too much this time. 

_ You have self-destructive tendencies _

_ When you feel you’ve lost control _

And that’s why I did what I did. 

How infuriating it is to know you’re about to set yourself on fire and do it anyway. 

Started with a morning fight with my dad; my mom called and I didn’t want to talk. Because my mouth felt like cotton and the words wouldn’t come out. He stormed out of the house for golf, slamming the door. 

I tried this time to be good. Analyze the situation with a clear head. I called Reno, but he had a baseball game and didn’t answer.  _ He had a game and that’s why he didn't answer _ . But My brain immediately flipped the script and reminded me how Elena is probably sitting in the bleachers, in the cold, cheering him on. While you’re here. Being all sad and pathetic. Pathetic.

Pathetic.

I mean, that’s what I am. 

I pop a pill and feel like the treads flail like loose electrical wires. That spark and hiss. 

Because I am not  _ doing this right _ . 

Once every other day. That’s the original prescription. I’m taking one a day.

I throw up in the bathroom. But I’m still faded. And I think I planted the bomb already at this point. All I needed to do was push the timer and watch the countdown. 

I ended up at Vinny’s. He finally opened his house again after a few weeks of silence. Everyone’s invited. The night started innocent enough with the core group playing _ Halo _ . Tifa and I even walked to the deli to get food for everyone. We talked as the heat of the sun attempted to break through the cold, crawl through our black clothing. Smelled like the beginning of summer already, even though we had months. She told me how she liked Rude but was hesitant.  _ He’s too nice _ . And that she might be into someone else and doesn’t want to hurt his feelings. And I said with some clarity that she should be honest instead of leading him on. 

And she smiled softly at me as a pink hue flushed over her cheeks. 

And I knew I made a mistake when I picked up a bottle of vodka. 

As the night wanes on, the house grows in occupancy. I drink like I’ve never tasted the clear poison on my tongue. Start off with mixing lemonade, but quickly decide it’s just getting in my way. 

My phone vibrates. Then again. And again. And I don’t pick it up. 

I should have fucking picked up the phone. 

Things get fuzzy. I remember there being entirely too many people. Johnny’s there. Leslie’s there. And this time, Leslie has something I want and I give him fifty dollars for five percs. And think about all the people who accidentally overdose. So I actually hesitated and didn't take them. 

Too much cigarette smoke fills the small house. Suffocating. I can barely see and it’s only half my vision being swayed. I end up outside with Cid. Sitting on the same small bench Reno and I occupied when he divulged part of his tragic life story. And I think this might actually be a good time to come clean to Cid. To tell him I’m in love with a boy. But I have to be kept a secret. And that I’m not sure if I want to be a secret anymore. 

“Hey, I need to tell you something,” he said suddenly and I remember feeling like I was punched in the face. I tell him to proceed. “I’m in love with Tifa-”

I started laughing. This terrible vicious laugh, “No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” he pressed. I couldn’t really see his face in the coming night. Just the ember of his cigarette. “And I wanted to know how you felt about that?”

“Why?”

“Come on, man.” I know he shook his head because I could see the light move. Like a ribbon. “I know you two had a thing-”

“She has a thing with every guy,” I retorted. And there’s this voice in my head that’s new. One that I know stared at me like I was speaking in tongues. “Really not hard to have a  _ thing  _ with her.”

“ _ Wow, _ ” he sounded equal parts shocked and disgusted.  __ “That’s pretty fucked up to say, bro. That’s your best friend right?”

I shrugged. “She hooked up with half the group, bro. You really want someone who’s been with Biggs?”

“She didn’t fuck Biggs,” he snapped. And I laughed again. “What’s your fucking problem?”

I wanted to tell him how I have no fucking idea what my problem was, in that exact moment, because my head is full of turmoil and I’m about to explode. That part of me thinks his flippant use of  _ love _ was so hilarious it made me sick to my stomach. He didn’t know  _ love _ . He dumped his last girlfriend for no reason. After he used love to get in her pants. 

What did he love about Tifa? What made her different from every other person he’d bat his long eyelashes at for an ounce of attention.

“Why do you even care?” he hissed. And there’s something about his tone that rattled me. And I snapped my eyes at him. Trying to get a steady look. And his face curled in frustration at my lack of support. His lips pinched against his cigarette. American Spirits. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I remembered how his face softened. And his eyes were gray giving way to green, like a meadow during a cloudy day, as he ran them along the lines of my face. And it felt like yet another intrusion. Someone else giving me a second look that lingers just too long. But unlike the cold stare of Sephiroth or the curiosity of Cissnei, Cid’s felt more flushed with understanding. Like silent pleas for me to unhook my jaw and confirm the thought in his head. 

I thought about two summers ago. I thought about how Cid was only the second boy I ever kissed. Under the basement lights of an unfinished cellar. How it had been a dare, from the girls who think it’s hot when boys kiss. And I feigned reluctance. But he committed because he never did anything half-assed. I liked the way his lips felt against mine. And I even followed his lead when he grabbed the back of my head and used his tongue. He told me later he kissed like he fucked. And I thought, if that was true, any girl would be lucky. 

And like a bullet to my brain. 

Now under the moonlight. Alone in the backyard. 

I realized something.

“Cloud?” his voice snapped me out of my muddled thoughts. I noticed we had gotten closer. And my heart suddenly froze on the spot. “Are…”

“What?” I interrupted because I know what he’s about to ask. Felt the panic in my head. Mixing with the alcohol. 

“Look,” he swallowed hard, “I just...really wanna stress that... _ I don’t care _ .”

“Care about what?”

“I heard...some rumors.”

“What rumors,” I jumped back. 

“Woah, okay,” he brought his hands up, and I wonder how my face looks. Because all I can focus on is the way he looks at me with pity. The same kind of pity I saw in Reno’s blues when he cornered me in the bathroom. And I started feeling hot from the pressure. Hot from the anger thinking about the red-head. How he pushed. And pushed, and for what? To take seven steps back when it got tough? 

And now I have my friends looking at me strange. 

Worse. I have Cid looking at me weird. 

Second guessing his own actions. Wondering if I’m defensive because I have a thing for Tifa or a thing for-

“You believin’ rumors now?” I seethed. Try to steady my breathing, but I have a grip on my jeans so tight I felt the fabric ripping.    
  


“No. That’s why I’m just askin’”

“Asking what? What are you asking?”

“Forget it.” he pulled away. “Never mind. It’s cool. Okay?” He placed his hand on my shoulder, like he’s done before. Like he’s done too many times to count. And I hate. Fucking hate. How every time he did my stomach would erupt. Like it was doing now. But not as powerful as the first time Reno ever got too close. Because Reno wanted me. And Cid didn’t. But he pushed once more. “It really is...okay.”

The button to the timer slammed. I shoved his hand off me. 

I stomped inside. And I had too many conflicting thoughts in my head- that crashed like two opposing comets. Exploded and rained fire. 

Mad at Reno for opening these flood gates in the first place. I was fine. Fine. Fine. trapped in my own bathroom, smoking cigarettes alone, and hiding behind girls. He pried everything open. Forced through my reluctance. Then set the boundaries. Altered the rules. Called all the shots. 

Mad at Cid. Mad at a rejection he didn’t give. Mad at the flirting I never asked for. 

Mad at rumors from people I hardly acknowledged. Mad that I even had to be concerned about them in the first place. 

Mad at Zack. Zack for being the first. To push and pull me apart. 

Everything just thrusted upon me with complete disregard for how this all  _ made me feel _ . 

So, with laser vision, because I knew what I was about to do. I would do what was expected of me. The part I’ve played. The idea snuck into my head like a virus. Infecting all logic. I took two more shots.

  
**Lights out.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realized that this chapter was hella shorter than the rest of the chapters (I think it's because it was supposed to be connected to part of the next chapter, but I separated them for length and now I don't know how I feel about that haha). So, sorry for the cliffhanger. I mean, if you ever blacked out you might be able to figure what's about to happen. Hey kids, don't mix drugs with alcohol, mmmmkay. Not cool, trustt me. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your lovely comments! Your thoughts help me tremendously! We are getting into some dark territory now, so please enjoy those cute moments between the boys. 
> 
> OH! And thank you boundlessaether for the HTML. Hopefully this works.   
> [Cleno Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1Dz5qSXgPUoSOBjW6vdsTg?si=bLc9LepCTqK9QamI09Tr0w)
> 
> So here's a playlist of all the songs that have inspired me. Some are from the early 2000s, some are from later or present day. Today's chapter theme is brought to you by Slipknot. Enjoy!


	27. Proverbs 6:16-19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are six things the Lord hates,  
>  seven that are detestable to him:  
>  haughty eyes,  
>  a lying tongue,  
>  hands that shed innocent blood,  
>  a heart that devises wicked schemes,  
>  feet that are quick to rush into evil,  
> a false witness who pours out lies  
>  and a person who stirs up conflict in the community.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW:   
> Homophobia/Homophobic Language  
> Suicide Thoughts/Reference to Suicide  
> Self-harm/Self-Hatred
> 
> This is a very heavy chapter. Sorry in advance.

I wake up to a throbbing jaw. 

A metallic taste in my mouth. 

Staring at my basement ceiling. 

I try sitting up but all my muscles protest, lighting a fire under my joints. My chest tightens from lingering sick. My head pounds. I look and see my knuckles are a mix of reds and purples. Dry blood down my fingers. I touch my nose like I am being pulled by a string and wince. Pain erupts. Familiar pain. Not the first time I’ve been punched in the face. But when I close my eyes I can’t recall who was at the other end of the fist. 

But I had a feeling.

I push myself completely up despite my bones cracking. More red flakes on my jeans. And my hoodie, which blends into the black fabric. I run my tongue around my mouth and taste red. 

I dig into my pocket, and find my phone on ten percent battery blaring the time of two thirty pm, with a grand total of fifteen missed calls.

I think I am going to vomit. Ten of them from Reno. 

Two from Aerith. One from Vinny. One from a number not saved in my phone but looks familiar. 

I have a few texts which set off alarm bells. 

**Tifasauraus Rex(1:36am): y wud u do this 2 me?**

**Aerith(1am): plz answer, everyones worried.**

**Vinny (12:30am): u nd cid owe me a table asshole.**

I keep closing my eyes hoping for the events to playback like a movie.

Black.

I go through my recent calls. 

I called Reno five times. But that’s not even the worst. 

It’s the phone call to Sephiroth at 12:30, around the time Vinny sent his text, that gripped me with concern. It didn’t last long. Enough, I thought, to ask for a ride somewhere. 

I stood up. The drunk in my system makes my legs wobble. But I manage to stumble into the bathroom, flip on the light, and throw up in the sink when I see my face. My nose swollen, lip cut open, some more blood on my forehead. And I can’t tell if I was punched in the face or fell into a wall-

_ Or into a table _ .

My head feels like it split open. Like a I was shot directly in the forehead. I go through my pockets again, looking for the tiny blue pills I bought, but find nothing. My wallet is still intact except for the rest of the money I had in three crisp twenty dollar bills. 

My body feels like it’s been pressed under a board with rocks. One by one by one. The pressure of gravity. 

This is the worst I’ve ever felt and I haven’t even started my apology tour yet. 

I clean myself and the sink up as much as possible. Almost throwing up again. 

Wipe away the blood. Prepare an excuse in case I run into dad on the way to my room. 

_ I tripped and fell _ . I rehearse. 

But part of me hopes he’s standing on the top of the staircase waiting to drop the hammer. 

And I’m disappointed when I see he’s outside in the front mowing the lawn and waving at neighbors walking their dogs. 

I sprint for my room, plug in my phone. 

I start with Reno. He answers on the first ring. “Yeah, not ready to talk to you yet.” and he hung up. I called him again and it went straight to voicemail. But I get a text before I could call a third time:  **u need to give me a min. Don’t do anymore dumb shit.**

I almost fling my lamp across the room. 

Cid up next. I couldn’t place why. But I need to talk to him. It rings twice, but cuts out in the middle of the second ring through; straight to voicemail. Seemed like he can’t talk to me either. 

I call Aerith. Her voice soft when she answers and asks immediately if I am okay. 

“I don’t know,” I respond, the dread in my chest mixing with the alcohol in my stomach. “I’m all fucked up.”

“I know,” she sighs, “I mean, I wasn’t there, but...I’m…” she pauses. I hear a commotion behind her. “I’m with Tifa…”

“Can I talk to her?” My voice cracks. Followed by a pause. Their conversation muffled and my jaw starts to tense again as I hear the phone being transferred. 

“Well,” Tifa growls. “What do you want?”

“I...sorry…” I respond weakly. 

“And what are you sorry about, exactly, Cloud?” 

My stomach flips. “I actually...don’t rem-”

“You  _ don’t remember _ ,” she screams into the phone, “What a fucking surprise!”

“Tifa-”

“The famous Cloud Strife excuse.  _ I don’t remember _ .  _ I was drunk _ .  That’s not an excuse anymore!” Her sharp inhale sounds like the knife across my skin. My whole body flips like it’s on a roller coaster and I have to close my eyes to steady my head. I bite my lip so hard, the sting shudders through my whole body, reopening the wound and blooding my mouth. 

She didn’t say anything for a while. Felt like forever. Finally, she lets out a heavy sigh, and I hear the tears begin to fall. “You tried having sex with me. And...I was going to let you because I have wanted you to look at me like that for years.” She murmurs a  _ so stupid _ . And that’s exactly what ran through my mind, about me. “But you told everyone I’d sleep with anything? Told Cid I hook up with everyone? Is that...what you really think about it? Is that the only reason you tried to get with me?”

“No,” my voice shatters. 

“I cared about you, Cloud, I...loved you so much that I looked past all your mistakes. But this?” Another deafening pause. “I don’t think I can forgive you.” 

“Tifa, I am so fucking sorry,” I plead through broken breaths, “I got really messed up. I’ve been really messed up. I know that. I know. I…” I stop. I can tell from the background noise that Aerith has the phone again. “Aerith-”

“Yeah,” She sounds disappointed and that just adds to this devastated feeling in my soul.

“I...don’t remember what I did.”

She sighs again, “You did what you did on your birthday. You got in your own head. And you blamed the females in your life because it’s easier than you acknowledging the truth about yourself.”

I shake my head, “It’s worse than that.”

“Yeah. It is…..Cloud. I’ll try talking to her. She’s crushed. But...I know you only did this because of what's going on at school.  _ You know what I mean _ .”

I nod, “Yeah. It doesn’t change the fact though.”

“No...but...I mean- ugh. I don’t know,” I can almost see her shaking her head. “I don’t get how you can have so much insight but still try to ruin your own life. You need help, Cloud.” 

_ You’re aware of your toxic traits. But they act like a security blanket so you struggle with letting them go.  _

_ What are you hiding from? _

When she hangs up to tend to Tifa, I call Barret. 

“Oh boy,” he chuckles, “Man you were on the warpath last night. What the fuck?”

“I don’t remember anything,” I admit.

“Bet you don’t. Especially not after Cid rocked you in the face.” 

I smack my forehead, “What did I do to deserve it?”   
  


“Well at least you’re aware,” he acknowledges, “Alright, this is all I know-”

He runs through the series of events like Samuel L. Jackson narrating my life as Jules from  _ Pulp Fiction _ . After I downed the two shots, I b-lined for Tifa and said we needed to talk. Then disappeared into Vinny’s for  _ entirely too fucking long to be okay _ . Cid came in looking for us, all flustered and confused. And I recalled to myself how annoyed I felt when he told me he loved her. Someone  _ blew up ya spot _ , and told Cid where we were. 

“Next thing I know,” he continues, “Yous are in each others' faces. You’re saying you were provin a point that Tifa will fuck just about anyone. Cid just kept asking what your problem was. Bro, you couldn’t even stand up, you were so fucking  _ gone _ . I was about to step in, and I don’t know,” He pauses, “Oh right. He called you a pussy. You told him to stop crying about his dad to get pussy. Then he mumbled something I couldn’t hear so you tried punching him in the face.” I note his laughter with a growl. “But fucking missed and hit the wall. So he knocked you right in the jaw. And boom, yous are on the floor wrestling like a buncha idiots.”

“Did we fall into a table?” I groan. 

“More like Cid  _ flung you into a fucking table _ , you had no shot in that fight.”

I touch my nose again and wince, “Why is my nose fucked?”

“Oh,” he laughter roars, “Tifa.”

“I am so glad this is funny to you,” I snap.

He cools it, but I can fucking hear the smirk, “You wanna act like a clown, I’m gonna laugh.”

“How pissed is Cid?”

Now he pauses. Another sigh in my direction which feels like another rock on my chest. “He’s bein’ weird about the whole thing. But he’s upset. More because you guys got into it than anything else- you haven’t talked to him I guess?”

“No, he...pretty sure he ignored my call.”

A short pause. I’m waiting for the lecture. One I’ve been on the receiving end far too often. “Look man, I have a lot of love for you, but you fucked up last night. I don’t know your deal, but you’ve been acting weird for  _ months _ .” 

“I know…”

“I know you got shit going on over there but...you need to get yourself together. Can’t keep getting black out drunk and fighting your friends. Ain’t a good look.”

He’s right. And I’m a broken record of apologies and excuses. He tells me he’ll try to talk to Cid, but maybe I need some distance from the group. For a little while. 

I called Vinny to apologize. He was over the whole circus and said it was mostly Cid’s fault for throwing me into the table. Still. I promised to buy his aunt a new one. There was one more call to make but I hesitated. 

Sephiroth. I glided my fingers over his contact and considered if I really wanted to know what happened after I left Vinny’s. I’m already bruised and broken. Flattened by all my mistakes. He texted me with a smiley face and a “I like this Cloud better.” And I thought of all the meanings behind that statement. And how little I care for the Cloud I’ve become. The one who continues to abuse toxic substances in order to hide all my truths behind a muffled mind. Like it’s a barrier for my demons. 

Maybe some things are better hidden. 

_ You’re at risk for self-medicating. _

_ Worsening your condition.  _

_ And increasing dangerous drug interactions _ .

I look at my bathroom. And I’m being beckoned. There’s options in there and I’m tempted to let the earth fall away from me. Instead, I collapse onto the bed with a huff. Listen to the mower outside tear away the grass while my dad sings  _ Sad but True  _ entirely too loud. The afternoon sun burns as it enters from the closed window- and I draw the black shades, and hide in the darkness of my room. Maybe when I wake up, everything will be back to normal. 

* * *

I wake up to my phone vibrating off my night table. Shaking the wood below and rattling my eyes opened. The sun vanished behind the black curtains and an uneasy air hung in the pitch black room. My dry mouth tastes like mold and I gag every time I’m forced to swallow. I blink a few times, trying to get my eyes adjusted. Vague memories of my dad walking into my room and inquiring about my condition. Begging me to come down for dinner. I chased him away with claims of illness. 

He said I felt hot. Told me to get some rest.

And I thought of screaming in his face at his lack of observation skills. 

But my eyes were heavy with sleep and I quickly fell back into the void. 

My phone goes off again. I grumble and feel around for the offending object. I’m hoping it’s Cid or Reno. Mostly Reno, who I need to explain myself to first and foremost before rumors of infidelity reach his ears. I’d take Cid, who I need to beg for forgiveness, and maybe explain why I ended being the one risking our friendship. 

I knit my brows together when I see Aerith’s number. I flip open the phone and before I have a chance to say a word, her frantic voice reaches my ears. “Cloud! Cloud! Are you there?”

“Yeah…” I grumble, “I was nappin.”

“Oh my god, please, tell me you haven’t been on Myspace yet?”   
  


“No...why?”

“Do not go on Myspace, whatever you do.  _ Do not check myspace _ . I’m coming over.” 

I sit up, “Woah Woah, calm down. Aer, what’s going on?”

“Just don’t-” I hear her flying down her stairs, “Daddy! I need you to drive me to Cloud’s house right now!”

“Chill out,” I shout into the phone. I can hear her dad protesting. It’s a school night. _ Why are you going to your ex-boyfriend's house at 9pm?  _ But she starts shrieking in response. 

Something constricts my stomach. 

I hang up on Aerith. I look through my phone and see three missed calls and one text from Reno time stamped for 8:30pm:  **Please answer ur phone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!**

Still gripping my phone, I stomp to the computer in my room and boot up the internet. Aerith calls back, the device rocking my entire body as the modem screeches to connect, and I ignore her. And I ignore her again when I log into Myspace. And I see I have 

**New Messages**

**New Friend Requests**

**New Comments.**

And I check. And see

**Fireman O’Toole has sent you a friend request!**

My heart races in my chest. It feels like the moments before a hurricane comes crashing through the window. An eerie silence descends around me as my mouse hovers over the name. I click. The old profile restored with the firetruck background and profile picture of a 70’s porn star in a fire-fighter’s hat. The sound of  _ Gay Bar  _ by Electric Six leaks through my speakers. 

And all I can say, “You got to be  _ fucking _ kidding me.”

A single blog post remains. A new one I had never seen before. My breathing heavy with the panic that courses through me. Seizing my brain. I read the title over, and over, and over. And the words don’t make sense. They don’t look English. But they are. My eyes are blurry from the tears that cloud them. Or maybe this is another defense mechanism from my fractured mind. 

Or I’m still asleep.

Or I overdosed last night and I’m in hell. 

My phone keeps going off. 

I shut my eyes and try to remember a prayer from school. 

And for some reason I can’t remember a single one. 

When I open them the words are clear:  **Cloud Strife is a**

But the slur is there. 

Written in pink font. 

The salt of my tears burns my wounds. I’m shaking. 

And everytime the phone rumbles in my hands, my fist clench and I wonder if I could break the damn thing. I look at the caller idea, ready to attack Aerith for her incessant calling. Attack her for even saying anything in the first place. 

There’s a number I don’t recognize. 

But looks familiar. 

I flip open the phone and bring it to my ear. And this time, a smooth even voice drips through the speakers. “Hello, Cloud.”

“Rufus…” My tongue swells. 

“Have you been on Myspace lately? Curious if you got my friend request.”

I don’t say anything. The blog post continues to scream at me from the computer, but I am terrified- actually terrified- of the possibilities. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He chuckles. “Why don’t you come to your yard, we have something to discuss with you.”

“Who’s we?” 

I can hear the wind through the phone,  _ Do you have anything to say to him before he comes out? No?  _ “Sorry, it seems like my associate isn’t very chatty right now. He was earlier.”

“Okay pause,” I snap as I punch the speaker of the computer off so I don’t have to hear someone shrieking  _ let’s go to the gay bar  _ during this event. “Why do you sound like a Bond villain right now?”

“Excuse me?”   
  


“Like this whole schick you’re doing. You sound like Dr. Evil. Fucking chill. It’s high school, bro.”

Pause. “Get down here before I tell your boyfriend’s dad how he likes it in the ass.” He hangs up. 

I stand in my bedroom. The light of the computer casting vile shadows along the walls. The faces of those in my posters contorted like the demons in my nightmares; that grab and tear at my flesh while I’m frozen under covers. But the monsters are real. They always were. Hiding behind well manicured masks. Warped smiles and bright eyes filled with promise. The electrons in my brain spark alive with the realization of what I am about to walk into, when I can finally will my legs to move. The tingles from sleep prick my skin like tiny needles. I’m equal parts numb- my limbs feel like helium balloons- and paralyzed with brewing panic. That starts in my chest, which contracts like I’m attempting to fall into myself, to my head that’s heavy with all the internal dialogue that plagues me. Like an infection. 

Then, like the voice breathes against my ear.  _ Reno’s down there. _

And I jump. I play Rufus’ line in my head again. And it’s enough to get my legs to feel like flesh and bone. I jog down the stairs, dad asleep, while March Madness shouts from the T.V. 

I freeze again. 

He’s slouching on the couch, sitting up, head falling to the side. He’s breathing even. His short blonde hair is a mess from the work he’s been doing around the house- all to prepare for my mother’s arrival. He’s wearing a Fordham University shirt and blue jeans. And he doesn’t look like he’s rapidly approaching forty years old. He looks young enough to remember the pratt falls of high school. What sixteen smelled like. What black outs tasted like. And heartache, what it felt like. And there’s this flash of consideration. Wake him up and tell him there’s a boogeyman outside, holding the love of my life hostage, and I’m too weakened to fight off these demons any longer. 

And I wish he would wake up and be the hero I thought he was when I was five years old. When he jumped into a freezing lake and rescued me from drowning.

I’m drowning again. 

But I don’t. Because in the same breath, I’d have to tell him why. And risk the disgusted look flash across his features. 

I continue towards the back sliding doors that lead to the yard, keeping the kitchen light off as not to grab dad’s attention. I peer through the glass and see the outline of Rufus, standing near the fence that separates us from our next door neighbors, wearing a long trench coat- looking absolutely ridiculous, and if this was any other circumstance, I would have laughed. I spot Reno, leaning against the rod iron table that’s flaked with rust from lack of care. I know he’s wearing my hoodie, his arms tight over his chest, looking towards the cracked wood on the barrier between our houses. 

I exit into the frigid night. The motion sensor light gives me away and both boys snap their eyes towards me. I realize I’m still wearing the clothes from last night. Dirty jeans with my blood, black Korn hoodie which reeks of vodka. My hair a wreck. Bruises along my face. But I try to stand straight. Shoulders back as I approached with a pointed stare directly at Rufus. The other boy towers above me, hair slicked back- every strand in its place with enough hairspray to destroy the fragile ozone layer- hands in the pocket of his tan coat. He looks like he’s coming from a fancy party, like this is a pit stop- some dirty business. 

My eyes scan between the two of them. Rufus with his lips curved into a smirk, and Reno dodging my look. 

“So, the fuck you want?” I hiss. 

He laughs gently, “That’s the spirit, Strife.”

I pinch my lips shut. I look back at Reno-

“He can’t help you,” he turns to the red-head, “You know better now right? Can’t be getting entangled with trash anymore.” Reno shifts under both our glares. The blonde returns to me, waiting for me to speak. But I have nothing. I didn’t read the blog post. I didn’t read the messages or the comments that laid scattered throughout my social media page. I ignore the rest of the phone calls and texts that begin to chorus through my gray Motorola razr. 

He sighs, pulling out his own phone, “You know, Cloud, I wasn’t even surprised when I got the text last night from a random number telling me about you. Always figured you liked sucking dick.” He scrolls through his phone. His voice deadpanned. My heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my chest. “I guess you didn’t read the post?”

“Why bother? Just a bunch of bullshit. Calling me a faggot? Be original, bro. You think anyone is going to believe Fireman O’toole?” I’m not stupid enough to believe the conviction in my voice. Especially when Rufus hasn’t lost the smile on his face; cut like a razor blade. 

“Heh,” he looks at me again, “Maybe. Unless there’s proof?” 

I can hear Reno moving the table from shifting, but my eyes are glued to the boy in front of me. 

“You don’t remember last night, do you?” He inquires. A deafening pause. I try to scan my memories again. But I am met with pure blackness. Probably the worst of all my black outs. I don’t remember anything after I watched the clear liquid from the drug store vodka emptied from the glass. I blinked. And I was back in my basement. Like I was transported. 

“I take that as a no,” he shakes his head. “So you don’t remember sending your boyfriend this?” He holds up his phone. 

My stomach lurches. Like the slamming of a drum. 

Then the sound escapes like a vacuum. 

Try to make sense of what I’m looking at-

The pixelated picture of me kissing a guy I don’t recognize.

And wonder with more fever what I did last night after I called Sephiroth. 

“Guess you don’t?” He removes the image. My breaths grow in intensity- and I can’t seem to capture oxygen- and I plant my eyes on my boyfriend. Sitting there, looking away because he can’t bear the image. “If it makes you feel any better, Cloud, Reno put up a fight.” I watch Reno wipe his eyes quickly. “But I told him if he didn’t provide the proof, I would tell his father the rumors that have been floating around school.” 

“H-How,” I sputter, trying to hold back the tears. 

“Got a text:  **Cloud Strife is gay. Reno Sinclair has proof.”** Rufus shrugs like the text was normal. “Told you to watch your back, didn’t I? Don’t say I never warned you.”

Too many pieces of the puzzle missing. I’m staring at half the image with black spots toying with me. Information I need washed away from my own decisions. The alcohol. The pills. I flip open my phone and look through my messages as if I don’t have both sets of blue eyes looking at me. All my texts to Reno were deleted. And I can’t tell if it was me or someone else, another vile entity, trying to cover their tracks. 

“Why?” I ask, finally, bringing my eyes to Rufus; blurred from the wet that I can’t control. 

“Hmph,” he muses, “You hear that Sinclair? He wants a motive!” And his laugh sounds like a million tormentors, “Motives are  _ so _ 90s, bro.” His tone exaggerated, mocking. He taps his foot against the beige stone walkway. I watch his eyes as they scan me, his lips fall to a frown. He takes a few terrifying steps towards me. “Hm, I guess, I just really fucking hate you?” He stops, “No no, that’s stupid.” Shakes his head and looks at Reno again, “that’s middle school shit right?” 

Reno glares at him and Rufus waves him off before continuing his advance, “Maybe...someone paid me a lot of money to ruin your life?” He stops again. This time he cackles into the night; the wind carrying his voice through the desolate neighborhood. “Nah, nah. That sounds like bad television.” He walks until he stands directly in front of me. He stands at about six feet, four inches too tall for my liking, and I have to look up to continue staring at him in defiance. My eyes narrowed, tense. But I feel every part of me fall apart at how in charge he is at this moment. 

“Okay,” he smirks, “I got one. Do you remember your birthday? You and your lowlife friends started the party at New Dorp Beach before being run out by the cops. Remember?” He waits a minute, “Maybe not. Heard you blacked out that night too, but not before catching your boy trying to bang your girl right? My how history repeats and reverses.”

He knows entirely too much. I swallow my worry down for a moment. He was never at my birthday, we don’t roll with the same group. Not at all. But there he stands as if he witnessed the events himself. And his statements imply...he knows what really happened last night. 

“Think Cloud, think about the beginning of that night,” his words drip with venom, “do you remember the girl that overdosed?”

Another wave of nausea. 

“Do you remember her name?” He pauses, “No, I guess you wouldn’t. We don’t really care about names, do we? You sell your shit and walk away. You don’t care about their names, or their ages, or if they overdose from  _ your shit _ ? Right?” 

And like a robot, I nod. 

“Her name,” he whispers, his voice slow almost, intoxicating, “Is Isabella Shinra, my twelve year old sister, you fucking prick.”

I know my eyes are the size of the full moon. 

And I knew she looked familiar. 

I knew and I didn’t care.

I didn’t care because I was in the middle of abusing my own drugs. 

And couldn’t feel an ounce of empathy. When a girl who was too small to be around those giants, approached me and asked with a voice that hadn’t matured, if she could have three xanny sticks. 

And I didn’t feel an ounce of guilt when I took her hundred dollar bill because I knew she had no idea how much they cost, and handed her three white sticks. 

“Do you know what happened to her?” He cocks his head to the side, eyebrows slanted in anger, “Do you care?” I try saying something. But nothing. My mouth has no moisture to move my tongue that feels heavy. “Once she started overdosing, they pushed her into a van, and threw her outside the hospital like she was a piece of trash. She has no idea what they did to her between the woods and the hospital. 

“She has nightmares still. Wakes up screaming,” I can hear his teeth grind as he speaks, “Lucky for you, she couldn’t remember who sold her the shit. But I had a feeling. I knew it was you. You’re scum enough to sell to a twelve year old.”

“H-how is this different from what you do?” I stutter weakly. 

He ponders the statement, “Honor code. Don’t sell under fourteen,” he smirks again, “and that’s the only reason you’re not dead in the gutter, right now, Strife. I get it. Hard to ID when you're fucked on your own supply.” the smirk dies, “But I couldn’t let you get away with this. Especially when I heard you didn’t learn your lesson. Pushing xan at Johnny’s? To my girl?” 

Rufus shakes his head, “No. I needed to teach you a lesson.”

“So you out me?!” I finally find my voice. “How is that the same?”

“Oh it is. My parents don’t look at my sister the same anymore, you know. They locked her away for three months in the psych ward instead of helping her. She’s  _ fucked, _ Cloud. They are sending her to a boarding school when the year is up to avoid the shame. You ruined her life,” he clenches his fists, “And that’s that I’m doing to you. So you know how it feels to have everyone look at you like your trash. Filthy. Disgusting. Because that’s exactly what you are.”

The wind howls through the trees. The moon hanging in the sky acts like a spotlight on the scene. “ _ That a good enough motive?” _ he sings. Then he grabs my wrist, pushing my sleeve up to reveal the scars that paint my skin. “Now, why don’t you do yourself and the rest of the world a fucking favor and get it right this time?” He yanks me so my eyes are on him. “Remember, Cloud, it’s down the road, not across the street.” 

He drops my wrist. 

And I feel the whole world fall from underneath me. 

He turns back to Reno, “See you at school, Sinclair.” 

Rufus brushes past me, done, walking out the side and disappearing into the blackness of night. 

My ability to process everything dies. 

I’m weighed down by all my uncertainties.

My regrets are a mystery. 

Too many broken threads scattered on the floor and no idea where to start to put everything together. I’m still reeling from the events that transpired at Vinny’s house. I haven’t even touched upon the afterparty where I apparently threw my life away for revenge. And I have nothing left to feel but shame. All the shame. Crushing my bones into dust. I want to be numb. So numb. A numb I couldn’t even comprehend. 

But the night is cold and unforgiving. And not over. 

The rattle from the table grabs my attention. And Reno stands next to it and I can see clearly the caution on his face. Like if he approaches I’ll burst into flames and take him with me to hell. 

“Cloud,” his voice a whisper. The word caught in his throat. My name. 

“You,” because I couldn’t stand the thought of wrapping my lips around his; poison. 

And in the moment, I expect an excuse. A weak  _ I can explain _ . Then torn silence. But he steps into the moonlight, and his eyes are shattered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

The world ceases to exist.

“You sold me out,” I tremble, “you sold me out to save yourself?” He’s in front of me, reaching for my face so I can look at him, but I push him away as hard as I can. “Don’t fucking touch me!” My throat raw, “You come any closer, I’ll knock you out.”

“Cloud, I fucked up. I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

“You liar. You fucking liar. You told me if push comes to shove you’d protect me. You said that. You promised. Between Rufus and I, it was me. I was….” I’m choking on my words. 

“He was going to tell my dad.” He takes another two steps towards me, “I know I screwed this up, but please let me fix this-”

“Fix this?” A strangled laugh escapes, deranged. “How the fuck are you going to fix this!  _ Everyone knows I’m gay because of you!” _

Like he’s not even listening to the words spilling from my mouth, he continues like anything he says makes sense to my ears.  _ I love you _ ,  _ Cloud _ he pleads while he falls apart with me. The tears he tried to hide spring from cracked blue eyes. And I’m a mess right there with him. But I want to throw up all this panic into a void and fling myself with my sick, and close up the hole and die in peace. I scream fuck you in his face instead. . 

“How could you do this to me? You love me? You fucking love me but you did this? Why bother coming into my life if you were going to destroy it!” 

“I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I can ex-”

“You finish that sentence, I swear to God, finish that fucking sentence. I fucking dare you.” I only realize my hand curled into a fist when my skin breaks and more blood seeps through my fingers. Only then does he take a step back and stops trying to hold on to me. 

I stare at him- and any love I held buries underneath this well of hate. I seeth through clenched teeth. “Get the fuck out of my yar-”

“Cloud, come on-”

“Get out!” I scream, “Get the fuck out already. Shit. Haven’t you done enough to me? You force yourself into my life. You push me to come out. You called the shots the entire time. The entire freaking time. And now this? This?! You think there’s coming back from this?! 

“You’re just as bad as your ex. You’re just as terrible as you made him out to be.”

I shake my head. Look at the starless sky. Recall the shooting star where I wished his presence. And how this hadn’t been a dream at all. 

“You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You...don’t mean that,” he has the audacity to respond. “I love you… Cloud. I love you more than anything-”

“No you don’t.” I pause. Close my eyes because I can’t see him standing there. I can’t because I'll give up. All this anger. Fall into him so he can make this all go away. Live a lie. But if I don’t find a hill to die on, I’ll die for anything. “And if you did, you wouldn’t have done this. So please. Please just go. If you ever for a minute thought you loved me, go and don’t talk to me again.”

I don’t know how long I stand there catching my breath. But I can hear him still breathing. And every second he stays is a second I start to change my mind. 

Then he does something new- he lets me have the last word.

I hear his footsteps disappear into the abyss. 

And when I open my eyes he’s gone.

The backyard now empty of the demons. Just me, rotting corpses of furniture, the smell of musk before rain, and the cold of winter. 

And when he left it felt like he took the last bit of me that feels anything. 

An empty cadaver all that remains. 

“Well, that’s dramatic, Cloud,” I say to no one. My phone screams in my hand again. I look and Aerith has called for the hundredth time. My lips twitch as I flip the phone and bring it to my ear. I hear her sobs through the speaker and it's louder than my own tears. 

I tell her I’m fine. She doesn’t believe me, but her dad won’t let her leave the house. And I’m grateful for her concern, but there’s nothing she can do.

There’s nothing anyone can do anymore.

It’s over. The part I’ve played has been recast. 

The act completed.

And I’m no longer sure if this is just intermission 

Or the End. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it's after midnight, so it's technically Monday, so I am posting this half asleep. I wanted to get this out early since August 11th is Cloud's birthday and I know there's going to be a lot of stories coming through (hopefully) and I kinda want to work on something to celebrate. Also, fun fact, my birthday is on Saturday. So Cloud and I are both Lions >:3 
> 
> Also, apologies for...this chapter. And the next few chapters are going to be heavy so heads up.   
> Fun Facts!  
> -There are two horror movie quotes hidden in this chapter. Bonus points if you figured it out.   
> -There's a callback to the original Cherry Soda Boy- Rufus' second "motive" was the original motive in the OG. But then I was like, uhhhh, how do 16-17 year olds have access to like 10,000 dollars. 
> 
> As always, thanks for your comments!! I love talking to everyone about their headcannons, or thoughts on the chapters. I know we're in dark territory so I'm sorry again D: Let me know what ya'll think! <3


	28. The Road Less Traveled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You almost always pick the best times  
> To drop the worst lines  
> You almost made me cry again this time  
> Another false alarm  
> Red flashing lights  
> Well this time I'm not going to watch myself die
> 
> Buried Myself Alive- The Used

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW:  
> Suicide Ideation  
> Self-harm ideation  
> Drug Abuse  
> Homophobic Language
> 
> \--NOTE: if you want to bypass some of the heavier stuff, skip until the first line break--

I got nothing. 

Sitting on the floor against my bed, my phone in my hands, as the texts from unknown numbers filter throughout the night. All the same. These people have no originality. At around midnight I stopped opening them. Let the razr hum and light up with another new number.  **50 new texts** . But I watched as if hypnotized, still in my filthy jeans and plain white shirt. I still smell of alcohol. I realized about two hours ago that my hair in the back crusted over from maybe falling into vodka after being  _ flung  _ into a table. Black and blues on my pale arms from falling into objects. 

And the phone still goes off. I wonder if anyone bothered sleeping. 

I remain in my position on the ground as the sun breaks through the black curtains, drenching the room in a muted gray hue that feels all too inviting. The dust falling through the air like sparkles of snow. 

People always compare winter to death, but I felt most alive during the winter when I woke up next to Reno. And now that the stench of spring-the early morning fifteen minute rain storms, the budding flowers, the pussy trees that line the streets of Staten Island which reek of tuna-wafted into my nose and signals unwanted change. Everything beyond my wood door is different. My room remains untouched, for a moment. Me, a zombie staring at technology with heavy eyes, familiar. 

My computer rumbles. I turned off the screen, but not the tower, so I wouldn’t have to look at the page with the incriminating photo and slew of attacks towards my sexuality. I know I have to go eventually and shut everything down. Consider deleting my Myspace page. Not like it was anything special. Always causing more issues than I wanted. Cid fighting about who was number one on my top 8. Tifa whining that my default picture wasn’t of the two of us. Aerith throwing a fit anytime a girl commented on a photo. How stupid. 

Not that I have to worry about that anymore. 

Cid never called back. Tifa never reached out. 

I know they know. They have to know by now. All of us addicted to this new era of technology. I can hear my Aim sound going off in my head; even though the speakers are muted. Or broken. 

I made the decision to bail on school at around three am when I started drifting off to sleep and kept waking myself up from nightmares. My dad, ever the oblivious parent, would probably not notice. He usually leaves for work before I finish my shower and relies on Sephiroth to drive me. 

Speaking of.

I call him at around 6:15 when he wakes up for school to tell him.

He picks up and his voice still gravely from sleep. “What.”

“H-hey,” I stutter, “I just wanted to let you know-”

He starts laughing, “Bro. I fucking knew you liked it in the ass.”

My whole self crumbles more than I thought was possible. “I’m not going to school.”

“I fucking wouldn’t.” He snickers. “You’re gonna get jumped, bet.”

“Uhm, are you...I mean. Are we still friend-”

“I can’t be friends with a guy who sucks dick,” he responds with minimal effort, “ _ Come on, Cloud _ . No disrespect, but not really good for my reputation, ya know.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I snap, “After all the shit you’ve put me through, twelve years, you are going to throw me away like that?”

“Alright alright, shit,” he grumbles, “it’s way too early for this bullshit, bro.”

“Oh, wow, I am so _ sorry to interrupt you _ , as my  **life completely falls apart around me** , thanks for your continued fucking support. Greatest friend ever.” I seeth into the phone. I’m trembling. Hand clutching the phone against my ear, tense, as a slow, menacing laugh, leaks from the receiver. 

“I’m surprised no one called out that fag Reno?” He questions, and the word burns like a match against my skin. 

I jerk at the sound of his name leaving Sephiroth’s lips. Flashes of the night of the accident seep into my memories; Sephiroth implying we were boyfriends. The rumors that swirled afterwards. I’m not surprised he isn’t drowning with me- Rufus protects his own, afterall. But Seph doesn’t share the same sentiment. He hates Reno. I know from the ever present scowl on his face when he is forced to interact with the red-head. The snide comments about baseball, convinced Reno is trying to steal his position on the team. 

Seph would benefit from outing him. 

And while I’m a giant pit of rage, and that rage towards the red-head. This would all be for nothing if anyone finds out, he  _ was _ my boyfriend. 

“Cause he ain’t one,” I snap, “leave him outta it.” 

He sighs, “Whatever. He’s a pussy. Anyway, I’m going to get-”

“Wait, uhm. I blacked out the other night, could you...maybe fill in some of the blanks?”

A long pause on the other end of the line. I hear my father moving about the house now, making his coffee, gathering his briefcase. Nerves rattle me for a moment that he might knock on the door and see my sorry state. While Seph clicks his tongue several times- a habit when he’s thinking. I wait with baited breath for him to open the flood gates. No one likes to be reminded of all their faults. The mistakes we make without recollection. How can you seek forgiveness when you’re disconnected from your actions? But I need to know-

“Honestly, I was so fucked up that I have no idea what happened after we got to Gen’s boy’s place.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose to alleviate the headache. “Come on, man.”

“All I remember: you called me, completely gone by the way, I could barely understand you. It was  _ hilarious _ . I was like ‘I gotta see this shit’. You’re walking through New Dorp Lane  _ punching out side view mirrors _ like an animal. I couldn’t even get the story outta you. I think you tried fucking Tifa but you couldn’t get it up which,” he pauses while I cringe, “now I guess we all know why.” He laughs and then yelps from aggravating his wound. “Fuckin, anyway. Gen was in Stapleton-’

“We were in Stapleton?!” I fume, “Why were we in Stapleton!?”

“Gen’s contact is there. We hung out with him. Did some K.”

“Ketamine!?”

“Yeah…” his voice trails off, “Fuck you really have no idea, huh?”

“Why did I take horse tranquilizer?!”

“Well, we all did.”

“How the fuck did I get home?!”

“I drove us, obviously,” he huffs. 

“While you were on Special K!?!”

“You’re alive right!” He yells into the phone, “Shit, don’t ask for rides if you gonna bitch about it, fuck.”

I throw my hand in the air. “Was I even awake?” 

“Don’t know. Blacked out. When I woke up everyone passed out. I found you in the corner trying to work your phone, still wacked out of your mind. You were crying. It was fucking pathetic.”

I burn with embarrassment. Head resting in my hand supported by the grip on my hair. Slightly yanking as punishment to myself for the sheer stupidity I displayed. K’s a dirty drug. Not that any drug abuse is clean. But we mock K users from our shining gated communities. Hypocritical before I even had it in my system. It explains the foggy feeling I felt all day yesterday. The disconnect from my emotions. The eight hour nap I took. Where I woke up and suddenly everything was different. 

“Anyway,” Seph grumbles, “You gonna have to find your own way to school for a bit. Can’t really be seen with you.”

I didn’t know there was any more left to crack. But my whole self seems to start disappearing. Like I’m turning into dust. “It’s really gotta be like that?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” 

But he’s not sorry. And I know when the phone line goes dead that he really, truly, cares the least about what happens to me. I bring the phone from my ear to my lap. I have a new miss call from Barret. And while I know he’s nothing like Sephiroth, and in fact hates the silver-haired boy more than I think any of the rest of the group, I can’t stand another rejection. One more person telling me they can’t be associated with me over a Myspace post.  _ The picture doesn't help _ . No it doesn’t. 

My dad knocks on my door. “Hey, you up buddy?” He asks, slowly opening the door. And I roll my eyes at the forced nickname. 

“Yeah,” I grumble.

He leans against the threshold of the door, arms over his chest, dressed in his blue suit with white button down and an obnoxious dog tie I got him for father’s day. And I wonder how anyone allowed him to be in charge of anything. He scans my form. And I hope he can't see the bruises on my face in the new morning hue. 

“How are you feeling?” He inquires. 

“Fine.”

“You looked sick last night-”

“Cold. Maybe, I don’t know. I’m fine now.”

“Right,” he tilts his head to the side, “Seph getting you?”

I swallow the groan, “Yup.”

He nods, “Reno coming by after school.”

I have to look at my ceiling to stop the wave of sadness from trying to breach through my painfully dry eyes. “He has baseball practice. Won’t be around for a while.” We told him this last week. Guy must have smoked all his brain cells away in college. 

“Oh, yeah,” he shifts against the wall, “You know, I think I’m going to come home early today. I can grab you from school…”

I shake my head, “Don’t, I’ll get a ride from Barret.”

“Well, I figure maybe we can go on a father-son adventure, since your mom is coming home tomorrow.”

I look at him, contort my face in both confusion and disgust at his ridiculous suggestion. “You had a month to do that.” 

He staples his mouth shut. I watch his eyes fall to the floor, to his scuffed leather shoes. That mimics mine in so many ways. I think about how he said things were going to change around here. And how they both did and did not. I think about how he has no idea how to talk to me. I can tell from the concern printed on his features, he’s trying. He knows something is wrong, but he lacks the parenting skills to bring it up. I know what’s about to happen. He’s going to throw a passive aggressive statement in my face. I will roll my eyes. Mumble something rude. He’ll scold me for being disrespectful. I’ll say whatever because I’m fucking sixteen and haven’t mastered language. He’ll fake ground me. Slam the door. 

“Listen,” he begins and I dramatically place my hands in my lap, snap my eyes to his with a forced smile. He winces like he knows I’m mocking him. “I know things have been tough around here lately. But things are changing. We need to start working together to make everything better, as a family. We’re all a team, right?”

I stare at him. I realize his question wasn’t rhetorical. “Right,” I respond blankly. 

“Okay. So I’ll leave work early, get you from school and-”

“Not going to school,” I snap.

He fumbles, now standing straight and looking down at me with bitter frustration. “What do you mean you’re not going to school?”   
  


“Don’t feel good. Not going.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“You just said Sephiroth was getting you-”

“I lied.”

He throws his hands in the air. I hate how much he reminds me of myself. “You can’t just say you’re not going to school.” He looks at his watch, “I have a meeting at 9am. I can’t work from home today.”

“Who says you need to stay home?” I counter, “I’m sixteen; I’m not a baby.”

“You can’t stay home alone, Cloud,” and his tone sounds almost resentful. And I clench my fist when I see his eyes snap towards my wrist. 

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” I grumble, hiding my wrists under my arms. 

“Okay,” he roars, “Your attitude lately has been shit. I don’t know what happened but it ends today. Your mother is coming home. She has made a ton of progress, which you would know if you could jump off your teenage angst train for a minute and actually speak to her. The first few days are critical to her success and we don’t need your moody face and bitchy comments. I’m putting you back in therapy, I am  _ done _ with this shit.” He slams the door on his way out. 

I laugh.

And I laugh

And laugh

And laugh.

Until I can’t breathe from how hard my body shakes from the humor. 

I fall to the floor, clutching my stomach, as I try to calm the howls rumbling from my throat. 

And I want to say: how fucking  _ stupid can you be _ ? You’re going to threaten me with therapy? And if he had an ounce of sense, he would have done that months ago. Hell, as soon as mom was on the plane, he should have called a therapist and gotten me in immediately. Things are going to change? How? How if you just sit there on your couch, your bottle of beer warming on the coffee table, while you watch the Knicks or the Rangers or whatever college basketball team you’re betting on this week. He didn’t even notice my face and all the cuts. He didn’t even ask why I wasn’t seen for almost an entire day. He acts like I don’t exist and then gets mad when he figures out I do. And he has responsibilities. That I’m his responsibility.

He acts like we are a team-

Then blames me for my mother’s failures.

And if he didn’t want me around, 

Why did he call 911 when he found me on the floor?

Wouldn’t it have been better if I died then?

I realize I’m not laughing anymore. And I found enough water in my body so the tears could stain the wood floor. And I’m sobbing so hard, I can’t inhale. And I don’t have the energy for a re-do of almost three years ago, but if someone could just kick open my door and blow my brains out, I would thank them in my last breath. 

I pick myself off the floor. Stumble to my bathroom, leaving my phone behind. 

The white light unforgiving as it highlights every single flaw etched across my face. My nose swollen and throbs with light pain. The under of my left eye looks like someone took purple paint and brushed it under the lid. Vertical cut on my lip and horizontal scratch on my left cheek, but my face hasn’t blown up- which means Cid didn’t use the brunt of his strength. He held back. 

And the knowledge makes me feel worse. 

Eyes pulsate. Burn from being opened. The tears dried. And I don’t think there’s enough water in my body to support another breakdown. 

I shower, at least to give the illusion that I’m alive, and try to wash away the stale alcohol and blood from my bruised body. Maybe cleanse me, in a way, of the sins I committed. But there’s no way I’ll be forgiven. Not by a God from above who abandoned me a long time ago when I threw away the gift he gave me. Not from my friends who have watched this dance far too many times. At some point, I have to acknowledge this may be a habit and not an error. And if that’s the case I’m worse off. 

Aerith claims I have insight. Barret states I’m aware. And I am. Which makes everything I continue to do a stark reminder that I am too far gone now. There’s no point in coming back. 

I open the medicine cabinet in my room. Stare at the Tylenol PMs I’ve had for a while. Given to me when I needed some teeth pulled and couldn’t sleep. Meant only to be taken once. But I’m not good at following instructions. I open the half empty white bottle and tap out three small oval pills. 

1 for the pain.

2 to sleep.

3 to sleep well. 

It doesn't count as overdosing if it’s only one over? 

I take them dry. Swallow them whole. 

My dad’s car pulls out of the driveway. 

And I think about how poetic it would be if he comes home to a dead son after that performance. Napalm his plan. His marriage. His life.

_ Minute by minute _ .

I stand in front of my dresser when the voice hits me. Something my therapist told me before she moved. Try to take it day by day. If that’s too hard, try hour by hour. And if that’s too hard then minute by minute. 

And I asked her if a minute’s too hard, then what.

_ Then just make it to the next second _ .

_ The world’s a better place every second you’re in it. _

And I think about how I haven’t done anything in the last three years to make the world a better place. But this second I want to try. So I take my time to pick out my clothes. Black basketball shorts and a  _ Linkin Park _ shirt. And already I made it five seconds.

And I still feel like trying. And take a few more seconds to get dressed. 

Now the pills are hitting in my bloodstream. The vibrations erupt from my stomach, to my legs and arms. And I dedicate a few seconds to making it to the bed. When my body hits the comforter, I’m feeling good enough to take three seconds to plug my phone back in. The time seven fifteen and the calls have stopped. 

I fall to the bed, facing the curtains, and count the seconds it takes for my eyes to close. 

* * *

Maybe sleeping well was an overstatement. 

It’s been a while since I used this method of escape. The sleep fuzzy at best, like I’m stuck in the static of a television. My body paralyzed but my brain continues to function. Which puts me in the place between awake and asleep- like purgatory- and my mind misfires believing the nightmares are real. This time, I can feel a shadow behind me on the bed, but I can’t move to look; which is probably for the best. That shadow a familiar demon. One that stalked my dreams when I first felt this terrible. Grabbing my ankles and dragging me off the bed. Before I hit the floor I would wake up, still under the covers, in the darkness of my room. Then the dream repeats. Dragged. Awake. Dragged. Awake. Until further and further off the bed. And everytime my eyes adjust to the darkness, the image of the ghost that haunts me becomes clear. Until the final act. Where it opens its eyes. Two beads of red stare back until I am finally pulled off the bed. Slam on the floor. Wake up for real- under the covers. Trying to remember the meaning of reality. 

This time, I watch the seasons change behind the closed black curtains that drench the room in an unnatural fiery glow. I try to close my eyes, but they’re already closed. My body has shut down, only my brain remains active. Footsteps echo behind me. They aren’t real. I hear the disembodied voices. They don’t sound familiar. Like noise coming from an old record player. Singing songs from corpses. It’s not comfortable.

I want to be awake. 

Always running towards the familiar, even if the taken path leads to danger. But I know that road well. Footsteps get closer. I keep trying to move my arm so I can pinch myself to wake up. But it weighs a thousand pounds. I feel my bed sink. And logic tells me I’m dreaming but panic tells me it’s real. And a reminder. The materialization of that friend in the back of my head that claws through the threads that keeps me together and snaps them. I manage to lift my arm and it falls onto its twin. But I remember what it’s like fighting in a dream. It’s like fighting on too many drugs. Fist feels like pillows. Joints heavy. Everything takes an extra bit of strength I just don’t have. But I dig my nails into the flesh just as the thing on my bed leans against me. And I can feel the pressure from both. 

Until the figure leaning on me, that I see in my mind's eye, rests completely on me. And against my ear breaths:  _ take the road less traveled _ .

My eyes fly open as my phone goes off. And I have no idea when I put the sound back on, but now I have  _ Until the Day I die _ by Story of the Year screaming against the walls of the room; and I already know who's on the other end. I try to get my mind straight. Look at my arm and I’m thankful that I don’t have stripes of blood running down my skin. That I had remained frozen despite my unconscious efforts. I try rolling over, but I’m still weighed down by the heavy of sleep.

Then the doorbell starts going off. Frantic ringing. Banging. 

I grab my phone. “Jesus Christ, Aer, fucking chill.”

“Open your door!” She shrieks into the phone, “Let me in! Let me in!”

“Alright!” I shout, “Gimme like five minutes to get my head together.”

She’s still ringing the doorbell, “I’m not stopping until you open the door!”

I hang up on her. She switches to banging against the wood. And I just think about the image of a small, brown haired girl in a school uniform attacking the double doors of a house on Todt Hill will probably grab some unwanted attention. I slide off my bed.

My legs didn’t wake up with the top half of my body.

And I end up falling onto the ground. And the rumble that shakes the house momentarily brings me back to three years ago.

I swallow the traditional bile. But taste the hot liquid. I don’t remember the last time I ate anything. I am an empty vessel trying to crawl towards my door. I manage to punch my legs awake with my fists. Curse my stupid decisions. And stumble down the stairs of my house, half hoping I’ll fall and break my neck. 

Aerith never paused her assault, so when I fling the door open she nearly punches me in the chest. I don’t get out any words before her body jumps against mine. Arms around my neck. And I feel her tears hit my shoulder. 

“Oh my god, I thought something happened,” she cries, “You weren’t in school, and no one’s talked to you since yesterday, and I was so scared. I even confronted Sephiroth and he told me you two talked this morning, but he didn’t even check to make sure you were okay. Everyone’s freaking out right now, they’re so worried about you.” She speaks like wildfire. Her words blending into each other.

“Who’s everyone,” I counter bitterly.

She pulls away. Her eyes green and bloodshot, but curved in anger. “ _ Everyone _ ,” she hisses between clenched teeth, “Cid, Tifa, Barret,  **ME** , Ren-”

“Don’t fucking say his name,” I push her off me. Instant regret. She looks hurt now, standing in the middle of my mudroom, the mid-afternoon sun drenching her pale form from the open door. Her hands on her hips. Hair tied back with a bow, so I can see how every line of her face moves to showcase her disappointment. 

I run my fingers through my hair to steady my mind. Close my eyes to remember if I’m still asleep, dreaming about someone giving a shit, or I’m living a tragic reality. 

“Cloud,” she starts again, “I know it makes life  _ easier _ for you to think that no one loves you. I’m sorry to ruin this illusion, but everyone literally cares about you. All of your friends.”

I drop my arm, “Then why are you the only one here?”

She sighs and her eyes fall to her patent leather mary janes, kicking at imaginary dust, “They care, but they’re still...not happy with what you did.”

I nod, “Yeah...don’t blame them.”

“There’s...a lot of confusion,” she continues, “You tried fighting your best friend. You pushed yourself on your  _ other _ friend. Texted you boyfriend a picture of you making-”

“Okay, okay,” I huff, “I don’t need a recap right now.”

Her disenchanted sigh hurts. And I avoid bringing my eyes back to her form. 

The house becomes suffocating. I urge her to move this dance outside; grab a hoodie I haven’t worn in a month and find a pack of cigarettes with five smokes left. And I look around the room for the guardian angel of toxicity who blessed me on this day. We sit in the front of my house- as I find the backyard to have been destroyed by the napalm bomb that dropped last night- on the stoop. I lean against the black railing for the stairs that lead to the door, small white stick dangling from my mouth. I feel Aerith’s gaze pressing into me. Washed with judgement. As if waiting for me to give her a proper explanation for everything that’s happened in the last two days. 

Two days. Everything happened in the span of two days.

And Maybe the writing was on the wall for a month now, but I still wasn’t prepared for the fall out. Or maybe I never imagined I could simultaneously screw everything up so spectacularly and have the rug yanked from underneath me. 

But if I work through the events that lead up to the revelation, I guess all I have to blame is myself. 

I stare into the neighborhood. The perfect manicured lawns brought back to life after the last snowstorm of the season (we could hope). The sun hangs in the sky, already pushing it’s intense heat down on the concrete earth. A stark contrast from the wind that wisps through the streets, a careful reminder that winter hasn’t left us just yet. The trees that line the sidewalks bud with freckles of green, returning to life after a frigid few months. The entire world smells like fresh cut grass and hot tar. Stay at home mom’s take their goblins out for walks, the quiet conversations, the children’s whines for attention, add to the echoing whispers of trucks and cars on the expressway that circles this area like a noose. 

And I never felt more like a blemish on this vile island as I blow black smoke towards the budding beauty of Todt Hill. 

Aerith finally gives up on me, takes another one of her sharp sighs, “Can you talk to me?”

“What do you want me to say?” I counter. But I dare myself to snap my eyes at her for a moment; sitting there with her hands on her lap, gripped with concern for me. So I throw her a bone. “What’s the word around school?” 

She toys with her fingers as she talks. “Well, everyone’s talking about the Fireman O’Toole post. The picture. Half the school is trying to figure out who the myspace belongs to, the other half talking about you.”

“And what are they saying?” 

“Uh, most of the school keeps saying they called it.”

I narrow my eyes, “ _ Excuse me?” _

“Yeah.... no one’s really...surprised.” 

I don’t know how I feel about that. And it seems from Aerith’s fidgeting, neither does she. She continues to tell me how some girls started a rumor that she turns boys gay. Someone already approached Tseng to tell him to stay away from her. One of Cid’s teammates made the mistake of telling a crude joke at my expense and ended up against the locker, held up by Cid’s arm. A few people gave Reno a second glance, but Rufus’ crew shut down any rumors. And no one has the balls to go up against Rufus Shinra. 

Graffiti on my locker already, she claims, but won’t tell me the words painted on the gray metal. Just that it’s been taken care of already. But I know it’ll be back again tomorrow- with something new. I pass her my phone, flooded with texts and calls. The false claims. Mocking slurs. She goes through them with a knitted brow; then crosses references the numbers in her own phone. Making a list, she states, of all the people she needs to dead immediately. Then she tells me she’s deleting every single one. Blocking unknown numbers. I watch her from my side of the stoop. Wondering what I did to deserve a friend like her. Forgiving me for all my transgressions, without the actions to support my apologies, and then seeking me out to help. 

I bite my lip, the rush of shame breaks through the cloud of drugs still coursing through my system. “Aer,” I start, my tone uneasy, and she looks at me. “Could you do me one more favor?”

“Anything, Cloud.”

“Could you go to my room and delete my Myspace for me? I don’t want to look through the comments and messages I got yesterday.” I know I lack the self control to avoid looking through the slew of hateful speech that litters my profile. And I know it’ll just keep coming. Like a never ending tsunami. And AIM will be enough of a problem once I dare approach my computer. And Aerith looks back at me, her face wilted in sadness for my situation. And while I appreciate the fact that she trekked all the way here from Tottenville to help me, she’ll just end up getting pulled into the storm. Torn apart. Spat out. And I already set a bomb to her reputation when we broke up. She didn’t deserve that then. She doesn’t deserve what she’s about to endure now. 

One more ask and then I’ll cut the string that keeps us together whether she likes it or not. 

She accepts her task and disappears into the house. Leaving me in the baking sun to smoke another cigarette. Three left. And I’m not one to waste perfectly good nicotine, so I justify sticking around on this plane of existence long enough to finish off the pack. Anything to keep me here, right?

Aerith leaves once the deed is done. Her face when she reemerged from the front door told me everything I needed to know. Cracked with pity, the lines of her face were the saddest I’ve ever seen. She made me promise to come to school tomorrow, even if it hurt. Made false promises to stick by me. But I told her not to. That I needed to go down on my own; no use dragging her down with me. She’s stubborn. Doubles down. Tells me she’ll call me in the morning; if I’m not in class, she’ll call every 50 minutes. Risking detention. And once she lays her own scholastic career on the line, I relent and tell her I’ll be at school. Not like I could get away with another unexcused absence. 

I did tell her to wait for my dad, who was apparently getting off work early, to give her a ride. But she assured me she had one. Then I looked down the block and could see the front of a certain BMW edging towards the corner. I turn to shoot her a glare.

“Really?” 

“He’s worried about you, Cloud. He left the second half of baseball practice to pick me up. He wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“So you’re hanging out with the enemy? Giving him intel?”

And she shakes her head, as if she knows my words are weightless, “One minute he’s being cheated on, the next he’s about to get outed. That’s the kind of whiplash that would break anyone’s neck, Cloud.” She shoots me a pointed glare like a bullet. “I don't condone how he bailed on you- but I’m going to guess he has his reasons?” She waited, and I looked away telling her everything, “Right.” She paused, waiting for me to say something else. Instead I close my eyes and shake my own head this time- consider smoking another cigarette to drag the doomsday countdown to two. “He doesn’t like showing his emotions, but he’s devastated. He loves you more than you could ever know, okay?”

I shrugged. “Tell him I’m fine.”

“Cloud, even if I would consider doing that, there’s no way he’d believe that shit.” 

“He’s my ex, Aerith. Betcha didn’t want me knowing how heartbroken you were when we were done?”

She tries to swallow the laugh. Putting her hand to her lips to push it back, then snorts unattractively. “Uh, right. Of course.”

I tell her to just go fuck off to her new bestfriend. In the black BMW. Listening to all my CDs. That I gave him. Bands and songs that now remind me of him. And I’m robbed of writing, and music, and gaming, all because of him. And Aerith doesn’t flinch at my sudden change in temperature. She just reminds me I’ll be seeing her tomorrow. And she leaves for his car. And I hate the wince in my stomach that pulls me to follow her. To run to the drivers side of that car. To tell him-

Nothing. 

* * *

The seconds are getting harder. 

And I have three cigarettes left. And I think about smoking all three back to back to back. Until my lungs collapsed and my throat bled. 

Instead I eyed a pile of papers on my bed that had magically appeared- realizing in that moment that Aerith snuck my homework in, probably given to her by  _ him _ . I huff loudly at the posters on my walls. And think that she went through all the trouble, I might as well dedicate a few fleeting seconds towards homework. 

In English we are doing a unit on American poets. Matthews allowed us to pick a poem and dissect it, his words, until it’s nothing but bones. And then analyze the bones. I chose  _ The Road Not Taken _ by Robert Frost, but as I stared at the words on the paper, the swirled like a whirlpool of colors, and I couldn’t focus on the curvatures of the lines, let alone start pulling them apart like they were skin. 

_ Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, _

_ And sorry I could not travel both _

_ And be one traveler, long I stood _

_ And looked down one as far as I could _

_ To where it bent in the undergrowth; _

Reno pops in my head. And the hole in my chest continues to crack. I think about how he’s probably grumbling about Frost and his metaphors and his use of nature. He probably feels the speaker shouldn’t be bitching about coming upon a fork in the road; that he should just take the road with the most footsteps as it suggests heavy traffic. Meaning there’s an end. He won’t look at the importance of the color yellow. That yellow can mean bright and illuminating at its best but yellow could also mean sick and caution. And right now yellow feels like poison. And maybe poetry is only as deep as the person reading it. Reno’s probably grumbling about that, too. 

Every time his name finds its way into my head, the hole grows until I feel hollowed out. And maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten. But the thought of food makes my stomach curl and turn. And I think about how many times I’ve thrown up in the last two days. And how could I possibly be alive right now after crying all the water from my body. 

I try to focus on the yellow wood. 

I pretend I’m the lone traveler. Walking through the forest, with the light of the sun piercing through the canopy of translucent trees overhead. Drenching the scenery in a bright yellow hue. And maybe in this case, yellow is comforting. Welcoming. Like a hug from a mother who’s been gone too long. And I imagine coming across the fork in the road. Two roads. Staring at both. Taking inventory of each path until my eyes couldn’t see anymore. How one disappears and shows no end. But the other path looks worn with footsteps of travelers past. But even so, neither path shouts safe. And which would I choose? If I were that traveler. I guess it depends on what I am looking for? 

A knock on my door, and before I answer it creeks open and my father's lake eyes look at me from the darkened hallway. 

“Hey, buddy, can I come in?”

His tone startles me. A complete 180 from when he left my room in a fit of rage. I nod my head and he emerges, still in his business suit and dog tie. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and I think about the shadow in my room when I took my diphenhydramine nap. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, peering over at my open notebook and sheet of paper. 

“Analyzing a poem,” I respond coldly. 

He nods, “I was never good at English.” Pause. Watch as his face acknowledges the truth of that statement. “Never good at communicating.” I drop my eyes back to the second stanza of the poem. And just stare at the black lines while my father swallows hard, trying to find the words that brim at the tip of his tongue. “I talked to your mother, by the way,” he continues, “I...told her what happened this morning…”

I bring my eyes back to his, tilting my head to the side with an arched eyebrow. 

He takes my silence as a sign, “She is not happy with me.”

I stifle a laugh. Even thousands of miles away, she still found a way to defend me. “Oh?”

“She thinks I overreacted and did not say the right things…” he trails off, scanning my face for confirmation. Which I give him in a nod. He sighs. There’s a lengthy pause- and I’m wondering if this is his pathetic attempt at an apology? And I’m wondering why he hasn’t mentioned my face yet, cracked with bruises. 

But his own face seems so worn and broken. Like a man at the end of his rope. “I’m not good at talking...my dad wasn’t a talker. He only spoke to my siblings and I when he needed to discipline us. Other than that, he mostly just worked, came home, sat in front of the T.V. I thought that was parenting. Just let the kid do whatever he wants as long as he isn’t making too much noise.” He rubs his face and I swear I saw something glistening in his eye. “Obviously, it takes more than that.

“I don’t...know how to communicate with you,” he says finally, after another pause that gripped him, “Never could. You and your mother, though, you two had your own language. You didn’t talk until you were almost two and a half, and I would get so mad.” he clenches his fist, “she just knew what you were thinking. You didn’t have to say anything. Just flash your eyes at her, and she could tell just from the look if you were hungry, or wet, or needed attention. Hell, you didn’t even  _ cry _ past a year. Everyone commented on how good of a baby you were. And you were. You were the perfect kid. It was great for us, young parents.” 

Then a smile cracked along his face. “I was so scared when we had you. But man, you were the easiest baby. Got you on a sleeping schedule pretty quickly. Only a couple of times you would wake up in the middle of the night- not even cry, just whine. I’d let your mother sleep and pick you up. We’d go to the back door and I would show you the family of raccoons. Tell you about the mommy raccoon, and daddy raccoon, and all the baby raccoons. Until you fell back asleep.” He laughs and that also feels like yellow. “You don’t remember, obviously. That’s a memory for me, only, I guess. We don’t have many of those. 

“Sometimes you would scream at me when I went to pick you up. You just wanted your mother during the day. I didn’t know what I did to make you hate me at two, but you did. And I would get frustrated that you wouldn’t talk. And I’d yell. And I really didn’t mean to yell. I just…” he shakes his head regretfully, “You finally said your first words six months before your third birthday. Your mom and I had gotten into an argument. And you walked in between us and stared right at me and said: ‘Don’t talk to my mommy like that, daddy.”

I snort laugh trying to hide my own amusement at the image of a tiny Cloud standing up for his mother. And my dad looks at me with a smile that mirrors mine. “We forgot what we were fighting about. We both cried because you said mommy and daddy in a full sentence. We hugged you and then you started screaming because you hated when people touched you.

“After that, we couldn’t get you to shut up,” he chuckles. 

“Wow,” I roll my eyes, “Bet you wish I never talked again, huh?”

His eyes light up, “Wish you talked more...at some point, you stopped talking to both of us.” He looks away, staring at the Metallica posted that hangs in my room. “You talked non-stop. I mean, it was  _ exhausting _ . Crawling on top of your mother and me, just talking and talking and talking. About anything. Asking me why like a broken record. We thought...at that point...you might need a sibling to entertain you. Someone you can run your mouth to-”

Then he stops short. His eyes darken. The smile on his face dies. And I know that forlorn gaze. The broken portrait of a father. 

“It was nice when Tifa came around,” he seems to ponder out loud, “you two played together all the time. She’s a talker, too. It worked. You two would play with your action figures and barbies and make up these elaborate stories together. Sometimes, we adults would sit in the kitchen while you were in the living room and just listen to the stories you’d come up with- mostly from you. You were bossy as shit.” He cringes when he curses and I wonder if he didn’t realize I’ve said worse. “Mom used to write them down, the stories. Said she would give them to you when you’re older…” Then he wonders to himself where those stories went…

He stops. Eyes on the floor. Somehow I can see the ocean between us, murky and cold. And it stretches forever. And this is merely a drop of effort in a bucket that’s never been filled. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” he sighs, “a lot we’ve kept from you. And even now, I don’t know how to tell you.”

“You don’t know how to talk to me,” I murmur, “I don’t know how to talk to you, either.”

He nods, this time, crushed with a sadness that I’ve rarely seen on his face. “I wish we would have figured it out by now- that’s on me.”

I bite the inside of my lip; because I’m hit with a tidal wave. This is the closest he’s ever come to an apology in sixteen years. But I’m dragged into the abyss from the undertow. And while I needed this conversation, I think, I still can’t find the words to call for help. I can’t even find the strength to reach out. 

We sit in silence as the clock continues to tick the seconds away. And I can see the sun begin to descend casting an orange glow that attempts to break through black fabric. And I think about what the symbolism behind the color orange could be. And what sunsets mean in this context. 

“Have you eaten anything?” he asks finally.

“No,” and that was the first bit of truth I’ve told him in forever.

“Do you want to go to Deninos? Get as much pizza as we want before your mother comes home. She’s already complaining about her weight and wants to go on a diet,” he rolls his eyes. 

“I don’t really feel like being out in public,” I purse my lips and cringe at how he nods away the idea sadly, “But can we order pick up and I’ll go for the ride with you?”

His lips twitch into a cautious smile, “Yeah. Good idea. We can watch the game tonight. Place some bets between the two of us?” I nod in agreement, “Okay. Large pie, sausage and peppers?”

I offer him confirmation of my order. He tells me he’ll get me when he’s ready to go. Part of me despises the thought of watching basketball with my father, trying to find common ground. The other part...wonders where my mother put the notebooks lined with stories I told at three. Or what happened to the siblings that never came. If there are any other memories only he remembers. Maybe if he divulges those secrets, I’ll risk telling mine. And maybe the ocean between us will deplete. To a lake or shallow river. And we’ll figure out how to translate each other’s language. 

I bring my eyes to the poem once more. Taking special note of the final stanza. 

_ Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— _

_ I took the one less traveled by, _

_ And that has made all the difference. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My best friend is visiting (AKA who I modeled Vincent after) and he's been hella distracting, so I am updating WaY earlier than expected. I might update again on Saturday as a birthday present to myself but it depends if I get through writing out these two chapters I am working on. Which are super distressing for me to write for some reason, so I'm trying to get through them as effectively as possible. I've been BLAH- I don't know. Probably watching the world die in real time ain't helping. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for all the comments on that last chapter. I mean the whole story was navigating to that moment so hearing everyones' thoughts was great. The next few chapters are on and off heavy; light moments sandwiched between tough moments. 
> 
> P.S Hey kids, don't self-medicate on Tylenol PMs please. And don't take K. These are not good choice :(


	29. Willkommen Zurück

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're just two lost souls  
> Swimming in a fish bowl  
> Year after year  
> Running over the same old ground  
> What have we found?  
> The same old fears  
> Wish you were here
> 
> \--Pink Floyd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:   
> Suicide Ideation  
> Self-Harm Ideation  
> Homophobia  
> Homophobic Language  
> References to Alcoholism
> 
> \--This chapter fluctuates on the heavy vs the lighter moments. After the first convo with his dead we get into heavier territory, then after the third line break we get a lighter moment. Just a heads up!!--

Dad took me to school; I guess he learned from some of his mistakes. He didn’t mention Sephiroth on the ride, but insisted on asking about Reno- even going as far as mentioning we should go to his game on Saturday. Like he memorized the baseball schedule. And I snapped my eyes at him in the driver’s seat. Focused on the road ahead. Wearing a blue and white pinstripe suit and a hamburger tie I bought him for his birthday three years ago. And I wonder...if he knows more than he’s letting on. Or maybe there’s an idea in his head, like a seed planted months ago when Reno first walked through my house. That’s been watered with every mention of his name from my mouth. And now it blossoms in his head and he doesn’t know why. 

Two parts of me at war. 

One screaming to tell him the truth. The other with a needle and thread ready to sew my lips shut. 

“You should join a sport, buddy,” he says suddenly and I scrunch my nose- he’s using Reno to manipulate me. 

“Too late for that,” I respond with a loud exhale. 

“Never too late! Maybe try something like volleyball?”

“Too short.”

“Bullshit, you’re, like, what, 5’11?” he bites back, he throws me a look which I return with pinched eyes because he doesn’t even know how tall I am. “Fine fine. Lacrosse? Like Cid?”

Another name like a bullet in my skull. 

“Dad, please,” I beg, “drop it?”

He sighs, “Okay, I just… I want you to get into a good college. You want off this shithole Island, right?”

The three cigarettes in my pocket suggest I don’t leave this island alive. But if I make that comment, he’ll jump off this car line and drive me straight to the psych ward. And I did a lot of burying to keep that month of my life hidden in a lockbox in my head. I slouch in my seat, wrinkling my uniform, and stare out the front window with a vexed look upon my face to signal the end of the sports conversation. 

“Maybe we should get you in a martial art, like karate,” he muses to himself, “Fuck this school. Yeah. Maybe some Brazillian jiu jitsu?”

A smile cracks along my face, “If you stop asking me about sports, I’ll consider getting into Taekwondo.”

“Why that one?”

“Don’t know, anything to get you off my back?” 

We both exchange a look and laugh. “You’re mother’s gonna kill me. But,” he gestures along my face, “Seems like someone can’t help getting punched in the face?”

My cheeks flush, “Wow, you actually noticed? Shocking.”

“Yeah, bad parenting right here,” he grumbles, shaking his head at himself, “Wanna talk about it?”

I grimace, “Nah, I already processed this. Talking about it will just be damaging at this point…”

His nod seems disappointed. Sad even. That maybe he missed an opportunity to be a father. Teach his son how to fight- little did he know, Barret and Cid already taught me how to defend myself. If I wasn’t on drugs, my face wouldn’t look this bad. Then again, if I wasn’t on drugs, and blacked out drunk, I wouldn’t have put myself in that situation in the first place. And maybe there’s a lesson I need to learn somewhere in these cuts that throb with regret. 

He drops me off at school; tells me he’ll pick me up so we can get mom together at Newark Airport. And he has this hopeful look on his face as he drives away. Like suddenly everything is going to be different, like he threatened a month ago, with minimal effort on our part. For a minute, I think he might be right. Then I toy with the wrinkled pack of smokes in my pocket. And consider all the other times mom came home. How success always gave way to failure. 

I ducked behind the school, where trees line the brick walls, and pull out one of my almost crushed menthols. Spark and inhale. I scan the parking lot, cars already pulling in- mostly seniors, who do not regard me as the filter into the school. I’m a junior, not worth their time. The few juniors who are able to drive usually park on the side street- though certain people get here early enough to steal a spot. And I see neither the black BMW with Tennessee plates or the 2003 hand-me-down Lexus. And I wonder which I’m waiting for under dead branches.

No, I know who I hope to steal aching looks from across the black tar lot.

_ We have almost every class together _ . 

I curse. I have to see him all day. And while he’s been in my thoughts, my dreams, on the tip of my tongue, I haven’t thought about the reality of seeing him. The last image, a broken boy, wearing my favorite hoodie. With a face flushed with sadness under the bitter light of the moon. Handsome even when falling apart. 

_ Fuck _ . 

I laugh through my inhale, coughing up smoke, at the absolutely shitty timing of it all. 

I flick the cigarette away.

Two minutes to midnight.

And the day’s only begun. 

I walk into the school, the hall an eerie silence as the time ticks the seconds to homeroom. Some stragglers running towards their classrooms. Me, gliding down the gray lockers against red walls, like rows of corpses lying in their own blood, and I’m next in line for the shooting range. As I turn the corner where my locker rests, I hear the squeak of dress shoes against linoleum floors echo away. I look up to emptiness. But a vortex in my chest warns me before I see the graffiti. 

**Kill Yourself,**

I check the time on my phone. 7:28am. 

I wonder if they got here early just to decorate my locker for my arrival. How  _ thoughtful _ . How  _ unoriginal _ . How it hurts my head without even  _ trying _ . And I already want another smoke. 

_ “Does it count as suicide if you smoke yourself to death?” _

I hate how his words fall on me like raindrops. 

I forget why I even came to my locker and just B-line for my homeroom. Not prepared, at all. I try to focus on the path I have to take. If he’s smart, he would have moved his seat as far away from me as possible. I just need to walk to the right side of the class, down the first row, where my seat next to the window should remain empty. Stare through the splotchy glass for thirty minutes. I repeat the path in my head as I walk down the hall, until I have it memorized like my own name. Make it to the door right as the bell rings, Hojo and I meet at the threshold as he tries to close the door. 

His black eyes staring up at me with a twitch. “Mr. Strife.”

I don’t say anything, he moves to allow me in and I dodge detention. The whispers erupt as soon as I take my first step. And I follow the path I created in my head. But feel twenty four sets of eyes crawl up my spine. I try to ignore them. Think about anything else but my brain decides to blank at this exact moment. And their words are vile. Inquisitive. Hollow. Some pitiful. Empathetic. But I focus only on the white scuffs on my shoes and how I have to put one foot in front of another for five rows down. 

I stop short.

Dart my narrowed eyes. 

Reno sits in the chair next to mine, slouched in his seat like he could give a fuck, tapping his pen to his lips. And I could feel his stare through the storm. I try to scan the open sea of navy uniforms for another empty seat, but the two I spot are immediately robbed with taupe messenger bags and silent warnings. And he did this on purpose. The first one in; he had his pick of the entire room. 

I guess we have to figure out some details of the divorce. But not right now. I take my seat, and remain glued to the window. The muted gray clouds daring to open. And I feel as God Damn destroyed as the sky. Thunder in my head and lightning in my stomach. Marathon winds tearing through my chest. 

I bite my thumbnail. 

And I know he keeps snapping his eyes at me. 

I want to tell him, so bad, that he’s making this so much worse right now. And I can’t focus on how much I both hate and miss him, when I have the boys in front of me looking back with Cheshire smirks whispering plots against me, while the knowledge of my best friends’ hating me still burns. Melting reason. 

I can hear the words press against his lips. And I close my eyes to stop the clouds from opening. And salt water rain to fall from my eyes. Because crying at school would just be the last push all these demons around me need to unhook their jaws and spew their filth with the volume of a tornado. 

And I try to count the seconds as if they give me purpose. 

* * *

I curse my last name. I curse his, too. I curse the lack of surnames that start with S in this school. I curse the teachers and the unoriginality. 

In Math, I sit behind him, trying to avoid sideways glances in my directions as Gast tries to go over sin, cos, and tangent. And I have no idea what any of it means. There’s triangles on the board. I have to solve for x. A piece of paper hits me in the head. The boys in the opposite corner chuckle when the head of the classroom has his back turn. I stare at the ball of paper, with faded pencil marks, and I’m about to grab it when Reno slams his shoe on the offending object. He picks it up, looks at Gast who is engrossed with helping Cissnei on the board, and chucks the paper back at the group as if he’s pitching a ball. Slams against the face of Kadaj who yelps like a bitch. Reno gets his ass back in the seat, his eyes daring the boys to retaliate, before Gast could turn back around. 

And I bite my tongue. 

Because fuck that was hot.

But in English, he sits next to me. As if any other day of the year. And I keep offering him muted glares to move his desk further away. But he pretends he doesn’t notice. And I pretend to ignore the girls who sit behind us. Whispering entirely too loud about the picture they saw on myspace. And if I really was gay. And who the boy on top of me was- they had never seen him. And my stomach swirls with all the anxiety. Resting my head in my hand and begging my body to not give me away. Matthews calls on me to offer my analysis of the poem I chose. I tremble when I take the paper out of my folder, marked to hell, and all the words look like an alien language even though it’s my handwriting. I feel my hand trembling. And I’m afraid if I open my mouth to speak I might actually throw up. 

When I notice Reno’s hand fly up, “Uh, actually, I wanna go!”

Matthews arches an eyebrow, shocked, Reno never participated in English. “Okay...what poem and poet did you choose? What do you think is the meaning of the poem? And What lines support your analysis?”

“Aight, so, I chose e.e.cummings- sick name by the way- and his poem  _ I carry your heart with me. _ ”

I roll my eyes. 

“First off, what’s this guys issue with capital letters?”

“Mr. Sinclair, please,” Matthews sighs, “We don’t have time for your tangents.”

“Right, okay,” he snickers, “so, this is obviously a love poem. This guy- I mean the speaker- wants the subject of the poem to know, with absolute certainty, that he’s in love with them. That he doesn’t fear the future or fate or the world because that...uh..bond is real fucking- I mean, really strong and sh- I mean stuff. And even if the speaker, like, messes up real bad, like I mean  _ really bad _ , he hopes the subject of the poem knows he carries their heart with them. Always.” 

Matthews has his hand on his face, shaking it back and forth slowly. “Wow, okay. What lines support that articulate analysis?”

“Uh, the whole thing, yo.”

“I need lines, Mr. Sinclair.”

Reno huffs loudly, “Fine. Okay so. This whole section-” He hunches over his desk, finger on the stanza. But he isn’t looking at the words on the page; I see his blue eyes break through a mess of red, resting on me . And he’s memorized this part of the poem as if he’s read it over and over and over again, until it’s tattooed on his brain. “ _i fear/ no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want/ no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)/ and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant/ and whatever a sun will always sing is you._ ” 

I resent how he tries to direct those words to me like no one else exists in this prison. Like his apparent girlfriend isn’t sitting directly across from us, with stars in her eyes, thinking those words he stole were for her. Even when he sits back up straight, his eyes linger on me crumbled form for a half a second, before he returns to Matthews with a smirk. And if I didn’t have sand in my mouth, I would tell him he needs to stop. If he gives himself away, would there have been a point? Does he even realize that what he’s doing isn’t helping? No. He thinks he’s saving me from bullies, from teachers, from myself.

But it works. Matthews calls on another victim and I thumb through the papers of poems to find the one Reno chose. And feel something in my chest rumble to life, even for a moment, as I silently mouth the words, so I know how they feel around my lips. Wonder if he did the same.

And think about how when we kissed we created our own poetry. 

And the thought of him doing that with anyone else makes me sick. 

Unfortunately, that feeling follows me to History. But I’m offered a reprieve, with Reno behind me, I focus on the scratches on the wooden desk. Try to follow Turnell’s lecture on the Great Depression. But Reno’s eyes burn holes in the back of my head. And I feel him crawling down my back. Like he’s trying to infect my bloodstream. I wonder how he could even still think of me, when I broke all the rules Saturday night, and placed my own lips on someone else's. Not a girl. Not someone we could excuse. That would only help our stance in the world. I fucked up. I set up the explosion, he just tried to get out of the way before we were both buried in the rubble. What am I really mad at? Who am I really mad at? For a minute I think of writing him a note, but I don’t have the words. 

In Spanish, I miss his existence with a crushing realization. No longer able to focus on my opposing feelings for the red-head as a distraction. Just me and a bunch of predators that circle me like I’m a potential kill. All these idiots, who can’t even string  _ Como te llama _ together figured out what  _ maricon _ means in Spanish. And when we are forced to break into pairs practice for the oral exam on Friday, Loz seems all too happy to swing around in his seat, an audacious smile stretched across his face. 

He clears his throat, “uh, a res es ma-we-con.” 

I cock my head to the side, “Excuse me?”

“You as ma-riii-can?” He sounds like unflavored white rice. But he laughs like he dropped a bomb of an insult. 

I shake my head, and Spanish has never been my subject, so I go with my butchered second language. Sighing heavily, dusting off the cobwebs. “Ich werde deinen Vater ficken.” Loz looks around, grunting with an unattractive  _ huh _ . I continue, my tone even, bored of this exchange already, “mach dich zu meinem stiefsohn. Zicke.”

“The fuck you say to me, fruit cake?” He snarls. 

“Du hast einen kleinen schwarz.” I retort. Noting that my accent sounds out of practice and if opa was around, he would smack me upside the head of mutilating his mother tongue. Scold me for not keeping up with my study of the language. I told him to blame the school for not offering German, but he called me a  _ wertlos kind _ . And that hurt more than whatever bastardization of the Spanish language this fool in front of me could possibly come up with. And even if my inflections don’t sound as harsh, Loz turns away, grumbling slurs under his breath.

I’m exhausted by lunch. 

Find my place on the sill of the handicap bathroom, blowing black smoke out the window. One cigarette remains. 

I’ve gone beyond anxiety. Or panic. There’s something uncomfortable about that knowledge. Even in the throws of distress, when I’m shaking, vomiting, and even believing in my impending demise, I felt a semblance of life. Something for my weak will to hold on to. And before I dropped to the bottom of the well, I found a way to pull myself up. Whether I latched to a ledge covered with spikes, or found a hand to hold. I found the strength. 

I’m empty now. The trembles that rocked my fingertips have quieted. And I no longer feel waves of nausea crash onto my body, pushing me into the ground. Just me, the toxins that fill my lungs, and the desolate bathroom. And I have nothing to hold on to. Everyone says rock bottom is where you find the foundation to steady your feet, but what if you never hit the floor. Just remain suspended between life and death. Somethings gotta give eventually. And what if I don’t find a reason to keep going? What if the seconds prove too hard? 

I close my eyes. Feel the struggling heat of the sun on my face. And it burns like hell.

The door opens as if someone yanked it with the force of a hurricane wind. And their footsteps are loud, squeak of Nike sneakers, but not heavy. And for a minute, I think a teacher finally got tired of smelling nicotine as it moves through the vents. But someone bangs on the locked door of the stall I’m in and I can tell from the three rapid knocks that Cid is on the other side. 

But I don’t say anything. And I think foolishly, that if I remain frozen in this spot he’ll go away. 

“I know you’re in there, Cloud,” he snaps, “Open the fucking door.”

His breathing heavy. 

But I’m the out who feels out of breath. 

So I don’t move. 

“Come on, fuck,” he curses, “we gotta fucking talk, man.”

I note the edge in his voice dulls. He bangs again and the lock rattles like small doorbell rings. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for him to leave. But I’m met with the black behind my eyes and no words to form messages to a god that’s forsaken me. He stops his assault on the door and I hear his body lean against it with a defeated sigh. He doesn’t say anything for a while. I wonder why I can’t bear the sight of him. I know he’s wearing his gym clothes from the sneakers and bare legs that poke out from the bottom of the door. I know he can get away with this intrusion because his gym teacher is his lacrosse coach. But his time limited and he came to see me; I have nothing for him.

Finally he speaks with tension in his tone. “Nothing?” Another pause, “all this shit happening...you got nothing to say? To any of us?” I want to remind him that I called on Sunday. He ignored it. “Everyone’s mad confused right now. Especially Tifa. Especially me.” I never heard him sound so despondent. Not since we were outside Vinny’s house the first day I ever spoke to him. Outside the window, where he cried on my shoulder and I felt bold enough to wrap my arms around him, even though I didn’t have words of comfort. 

“I thought we were best friends,” he whispered bitterly, “Brothers, even. You always said that. I am supposed to be your best friend and you can’t even talk to me right now? Fuck man. I should still be tight at  _ you _ for the stunt you pulled on Saturday. You fucking bring my dad up? Swing at  _ me _ ? 

“Were you worried I was gonna say something?” This time, he cuts his words like a knife. Toys with his next sentence. I don’t even have a voice to beg for release. “You coulda told me, guy. You’re my brother. I don’t care but I need to hear it from you and not some stupid Myspace bullshit.”

I don’t know how to make the words come out of my mouth. Because I am not ready to give them life. Someone ripped away my chance to come out to my friends. To sit them down and tell them, with my own voice. Now my voice is gone. 

“Nothing?”

And everytime he says that word, I feel like I’m falling into oblivion. 

And part of me wants him to curse me out. To remind me of how much of a shitty friend I’ve actually been in the last two years. That he deserves more than someone who will harbor a secret and use it as a weapon at the most unfortunate times. Who will turn against him at the slightest inconvenience. I really want him to unleash his anger. Because the alternative, the reality, the slow lift of his body off the door. The pause where he stands in front of the door still hoping I will open and face him. To the sharp inhale where I can almost hear the sadness quake in his watercolor eyes. All of it, right now to the slow walk out of the bathroom, is devastating. And I consider opening the window just a bit more and letting my body fall to the garden below. 

But I have one cigarette left. 

And the Strifes don’t waste. 

I also need to get the fuck out of the bathroom before I give myself any good ideas. I try to remember other phrases that woman told me to hold on to when I feel this terrible. This close to giving up. But all I can think about, when the seconds get too hard, it’s time to get some real help. I’m muted. Got no vocal cords. To ask for help. To curse God. To beg for forgiveness. I stomp through the hallways of the school, to get back to my locker. Chuck my books into the metal home and, I don’t know, leave? I don’t even know where my legs are taking me. I don’t know if I have a motive for any of my actions right now. 

The writing on my locker remains-

Except they managed to finish it off with the slur.

And it’s both familiar and new. I’ve been told this all my life. 

_ Kill yourself _ . 

Like my mind doesn’t have the option on repeat. 

And the last time it was this loud--

I want something to hold on to--

I open my locker as if I’m trying to rip the door of its hinges. 

And freeze. 

“ _ Maybe this is selfish,  _

_ but it's the way you make me feel when you’re around.” _

I blink a few times to make sure I'm not hallucinating. Then shove my hand in my pocket where the pack crumble menthols which holds one last lifeline rests still. A laugh rumbles in the pit of my stomach. In the center of the metallic coffin, on top of my copy of  _ The Catcher In the Rye _ , the next book on the reading list, a fresh pack of white Marlboro Menthols. I tentatively reach into my locker and feel my hands wrap around the rectangle package. The edges pushing into my skin. Reality. 

_“I’m alive again.”_

I note the ridiculousness of this concept. And the dangers of putting hope of staying alive in another human. But as I run my thumb across the plastic, hearing the crinkle, thinking back to all our conversations under black smoke, I consider this sudden rush of serotonin enough to keep me going. At least for a little while. 

* * *

My dad picked me up early, so I missed Religion. He wanted to give me enough time to change out of my uniform before we had to get my mom from the airport. He talked to her before her flight and the excitement in her voice was contagious, he noted. And I could tell from the grin on his face when he pulled in front of the school that remained frozen right until we got onto the Jersey turnpike- then it fell to a scowl as he tried to bully all the yellow plated drivers to get out of his way. 

In between honks of the horn and his cursing, he asked how school was. I dodged the obvious. The slurs. The threats. The pain that reemerged, a bit more manageable when I faced Barret in Gym- who stared at me while doing bicep curls and waiting for me to speak- to Physics when I had to sit next to Reno the entire time. Smell his cologne and close enough that we occasionally and “accidentally” kicked each other under the table. 

School was  _ fine _ . And he didn’t press the matter. 

When we got to the airport, my nerves began to spark. Couldn’t tell if I'm excited or dreading the encounter with my mom. I recalled the last few times she went to rehab, that I could properly remember. All the same. Though, this will be the first time I see her as soon as she exits the plane. In the past, she reappeared at the house, as if she never left in the first place, goes into manic cleaning mode. With a bright smile on her slightly fuller face. Her eyes small and gray, rippled with crows feet as she couldn't contain her happiness. The image of a perfect mother. That would turn to dust. Her own routine. 

But maybe, things could be different. 

I watched her run down the tiled floor in her Louboutin heels echoing over the disembodied conversations that swirled around us. She struggled with balancing her rolling suitcase and large carry on bag that held her entire world. Sunglasses on top of brown hair up in a high ponytail, so her illuminated face could shine when she rested her gray eyes on her son and husband. My dad jogged over to help her, and I could hear the squeal when she threw her arms around his neck. Gripping him tightly afraid to let go. And I felt his strange embarrassment seeing my parents' affection on display. I dropped my eyes to my dirty converses and kicked at imaginary rocks while they flirted with one another like two school kids. 

Mom managed to untangle herself from my dad, dropping all her items on him and walking to me next. With her black shoes, she reached my nose. And I looked down at her with a forced smile. 

“Too cool to give your mom a hug?” She joked. I shrugged and she took it upon herself to wrap me in her skinny arms. She smelled like powder. Like sunflowers and daisies. Like she did at Easter parties. In pink floral dresses, holding my hand as we hunted for eggs my dad left on the lawn. And I surprised myself when I hugged her back. And she squeezed while whispering how much she missed me. 

She pulled back to get a good look at me. And I recalled what my father told me- about how she could read me like an open book. And she glided her thumb over the purple bruise under my eye, tilted her head, then scanned my eyes for some kind of silent explanation. And I swear I heard her ask:  _ someone broke your heart? _ And without thinking I nodded. Her first frown forms, but she doesn’t push- there’s time for that later. 

The whole ride home, my parents listened to old CDs from the 80s and reminisced about early in their relationship. Every song held a story. And it made my stomach turn seeing them so blissful and happy. I kept my eyes on the window, admiring the New Jersey skyline of Billboards and factories blowing black smoke from their chimneys. The smell of trash filled my nose as we crossed the Outerbridge back into Staten Island. Dad picked up food from my mother’s favorite restaurant on the island and we ate dinner for the first time as a family in months. And I tried to enjoy the scene. I really did. My mother awake and cracking jokes with my dad; who leaned towards her to occasionally play with her hair. While I pushed my food around my plate. Finding myself too torn apart to even eat. Hoping they would continue to be oblivious. 

But my mom would dart her eyes at me. And I could see the waves of concern crashing in her. And I thought the fiery speech my dad laid on me the day before. About my bitchy attitude. And morose face. And how once again, the flashes of emotion that I can’t hide under overgrown bangs reveal all the damage in my head. All I do is drag more people into my web of sadness. No wonder no one wants to be around me-

I convince myself.

When we finish dinner, I duck away in fear my mom- or dad- would want to continue this bonding. I feel used up. Like every bit of energy I have to engage in forced conversation has been depleted throughout the day. And if I can’t manipulate my mother through guilt to let me stay home from school, perhaps for the rest of the life, I have to recharge for another episode of Hypocrisy, homophobia, and heartbreak. 

I sit outside now, with my guitar on my lap, plucking away at the strings with no clear route or song in mind. I lean against the longue chair, staring at the fence that separates the two backyards; the wood dark with splotches of green. One of the panels cracked from repeatedly supporting Reno’s weight when he insisted on hopping over. And I grip the neck of my guitar and allow this flare up of empty pain to cascade all over. Pinch my eyes close so I don’t drag them to his window. I was good at avoiding the backyard, yesterday. But today, I feel compelled to breathe in the scent of Spring. Try to reclaim my place. 

I hear the sliding door and I know it’s my mother, bare foot, approaching me. I open my eyes, quickly wiping away the buds of tears that built up, before she can see. She’s still in her outfit from the airport- black leggings and long tunic style white tank with a green sweater that brings out the flakes of emerald that freckles along her eyes. She helps herself to a seat on the same longue, and I sit criss-cross to give her room, with my instrument still resting in my lap. This time as a barrier in case she wants to try to hug again. I’m all tapped out of physical affection. 

“What are you playing?” she asks. 

“Just fucking around,” I respond. 

“Language, mister,” she smiles and I drop my gaze to my fingers. “How’s it been since I’ve been away?”

I shrug, suddenly flushed with embarrassment for not answering the phone when she had a minute to call. “Fine.”

“You and dad getting along?” It’s a trick question. But I nod like a liar anyway. “He told me what happened yesterday.”

“It’s whatever, I was being a shit-head,” I admit. I finally bring my eyes to her and she’s scanning my face with a troubled expression. 

Then she gestures to the bruises, “What happened here then?”

“I was fu-messing around with the guys and fell into a table,” which is a partial truth and not a flat out lie this time. But she reads my look like it’s written in words across my face. “Seriously. It was my fault.”

And she nods with wilted eyes and we fall into a tense silence. I realize now, I also don’t know how to talk to her, because this has been one of the few times she’s been lucid enough to speak in coherent sentences. The woman sitting in front of me is basically a stranger, someone I’ve encountered briefly throughout my life. And I from the unsettled look across her smooth features, I think she understands my reluctance to open up. 

“Cloud,” she says and her words drip with regret. “I know I haven’t been the best mother to you. And I know I’ve made this promise to you before; but I am dedicated to fixing everything.” She pauses as if waiting for me to say something- an argument? She’s not wrong, she’s given me this speech before. My chest tightens; I feel sick and I don’t know how to tell her. That these flashes of uncertainty on my face don’t have much to do with her. This is a drop in the well of my problems. I swallow back the brutal sadness that rumbles back to life. And she continues anyway. “One of the steps...is to make amends to the people you’ve hurt-”

“Mom,” I tremble. She stitches her lips shut. “If it’s okay...could we save this for another day?” I can hear my voice crack. I can see it in her eyes, the sudden fear. “I just...had a rough day at school and don’t know if I can really...process this right now.”

I’m grateful for her understanding in this moment, as she flashes me a soft smile and nods her head. I do note the gloom in her stormy grays. And I feel bad that I cut short her speech. But I’m not sure if I could handle someone unloading all their regrets on to me. Not right now. 

“Okay, that’s fine.” And her tone is comforting, “Your dad is going away for business soon. Maybe we can have some mother son bonding? Watch some horror movies and make rice krispie treats like we did when you were younger?” 

Damn, these two are desperate for my attention. 

I should be flattered. But it feels so forced. Almost phony. But she’s trying and I’m not sure if she has any other ways to relate to me. So I agree.

“Yeah, that sounds fine.” I push the most sincere smile I could possibly muster up. And she mirrors the look, though I note it seems to form more easily. She ruffles my growing hair. Tells me she loves me in her first language, a special moment shared between the two of us. A reminder of the secret way we communicate. And I think about how she was reduced to tumbling those foreign words from her mouth almost three years ago. 

I dwell on that for a moment as she goes to leave. 

And then as if compelled by another voice, call out. “Mom…” she turns around. “What...step is making amends?”

She arches a brown eyebrow, “Nine. But all the steps are ongoing. Why?”

“Just curious…” my voice trails off. 

“First step is arguably the most important. Admitting there’s a problem.” 

I nod, “Yeah...yeah I know that one…”

She looks like she’s going to continue, but then makes the decision to leave this conversation for another day. And I’m grateful for that; I need time to think. She disappears back into the house, presumably to join my father on the couch. Once I note the coast is clear, I pull out the last cigarette from the crumbled pack of smokes I found, deciding to save the fresh pack for another day. And I note the warm sensation that crawls along my nervous system when I think about making it to that day. Maybe the impossible is possible. If my mother can manage to fight off her addiction, maybe I can find it in me to fight another day. 

The intense smell of Marlboro Reds finds its way to my nose. I snap my eyes to the fence. And I can’t see him behind the wood structure, but from the way my chest opens, I know he’s sitting there. Listening to me. He probably remembers today my mother came home; and if I know him, which I do, he wants to know how she’s doing. I check my phone, forgetting my cigarette for the moment. No new calls. No new messages. From him. Keeping true to the unspoken promise, but it kills me. Like the faded exhale in the distance which hits my ears and holds all the words he wants to say. 

I wonder if I’m being too hard on him. But I also can’t deny the hurt I feel. Don’t I get a say, for once, how his actions have affected me? Aren’t they just as valid as his fears? Still. 

Strike my match and light the cigarette between my lips. Let his smoke mix with mine for the moment. Strum the guitar to capture his attention. 

  
And with a broken voice, play  _ Wish You Were Here _ by Pink Floyd. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardest chapter to write so far. This was the chapter that got me all messed up last week. But I got through it and I hope ya'll can to! Apologies if my German is trash, I tried teaching myself around the ages of 17 to 18 but I know it's not up to par. Tried to do as much research on German language. What Cloud responds to Loz is "I"m going to fuck your dad and make you my step-son. Bitch" and "You have a small dick." 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your comments!!! Truly appreciate them and I have so much fun reading them. Hope this chapter isn't too heavy. Next chapter will still be in the realm of angst, but will have some lighter moments. Thanks for sticking around!!!


	30. Judas In Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is a vampire, sent to drain  
> Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames  
> And what do I get, for my pain?  
> Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game  
> Even though I know--I suppose I'll show  
> All my cool and cold-like old job  
> Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a Cage.  
> \--Bullet with Butterfly Wing-- The Smashing Pumpkins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW  
> -Some homophobic language  
> \--Suicide ideation  
> \--Dubious consent.

Sleep refused to claim me. And I found myself staring at the white bottle again as it made promises under fluorescent lights. I know if I take these, I’m going to be a zombie in the morning. I know if I don’t, I’m going to be a zombie anyway. Double edge sword and no viable outcome. The thought of preying on my mother’s guilt, like I’ve done in the past, slithers into my head like a rattlesnake. The fading bruises on my face add an extra layer of concern; she might actually buy I need a break from school. But she discussed her meeting with an advisor at The College of Staten Island to finish up the last bit of her credits for an Associates Degree she never received; and then how she was already planning on going for her B.A in Psychology or Counseling. And there’s no way she’s leaving me alone in the house. She already shot me looks throughout the night, right up until I shut my door and turned out the light. I could hear her lingering outside, ear pressed, wondering if she should come in and make me talk. 

And if she refuses to let me stay alone, she'll either cancel all her appointments or drag me along to them. And neither one of those options sounds good. 

I negotiate two pills. Enough to make me sleep; hopefully not enough to welcome the sleep paralysis demon into my thoughts. I crash onto the bed with my eyes glued to the wall. The  _ Slipknot _ and  _ Hellraiser _ posters frame the curtained window. I can hear the wind clawing through the weeping willow which rests directly outside. It’s long bare branches scrape against the glass giving off troubling sounds that just barely reach conscious ears. It’s unsettling. But familiar. And it adds to the weight I feel when I bring the comforter over my head. Pinch my eyes and hope for sleep. 

And this time I think about the last time I felt this worn was more recent than I’d like to admit. The first weekend my mom left, and I had pushed an unbothered aura throughout the week started to chip and crumble by the weekend. And I wasn’t exactly sure why I felt so vacant. The center of my body opened, exposed, like the wind could just pass through me and I could feel the chill like skeleton fingers grazing against my insides. And all I wanted to do was melt into the fabric of this bed and cease to exist. 

Until he had shown up, unannounced. He knew where we hid the spare key under a fake rock in the front of the house. He walked in as if he lived here. Traversed the nearly empty house. And if I concentrate hard enough, I can even hear him now ascending the staircase. When he found me, laying under the covers in the middle of the afternoon, he didn’t say a word. He laid on  _ his  _ side of my bed, the spot closest to the window. And I watched as his fingers gripped the comfortable and pulled it down. The sun was bleeding through the window. The curtain opened, closed when I decided to wallow, but Reno had other plans. The rays blinded me for a moment, eyes pinched shut. All I could do was feel. His hand running along my face, into my hair, where it stayed. 

_ What’s up, pretty boy? _

And I knew I didn’t look pretty. There was no way. I had been in between strangling tears from my eyes. Rimmed with scarlet and veins like webs around the whites from lack of sleep. My skin had it out for me. Blotches of acne from binge drinking the night before after he left. Alone. My hair greasy and wrecked from tossing in the bed all night and then laying still in the morning. And I was mortified he was seeing me like this, that I tried to scoot under the covers again to hide my face. But instead he removed his hand from my hair and wrapped his arm around me, tight, so I couldn’t move. He laid next to me- and he smelled clean, like he had just gotten out of the shower- and he ran his long fingers up and down my spine. 

_ It just be like this sometimes?  _ He asked and I nodded against his chest. 

_ You should go, _ I had warned, _ I’m not very much fun to be with right now _ . 

A small laugh, pinched with sympathy, rumbled along his body. But he didn’t move or leave. Not even when I fell back into a dreamless sleep, enjoying the warmth his body provided. At some point, he leaned up against me, his breath against my ear.  _ No place else I’d rather be _ .

I jump up. My eyes fly open and I’m met with the cold darkness of four am. The light from street lamps attempt to push through the black curtain. I blink a few times, to get my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I swear I just heard him. I still smell his scent on the sheets- Old Spice and Irish Spring soap- but the spot remains empty. It was a memory leaking into my dreams. For no other purpose than just to torture me. Or comfort me. Or remind me that there is someone in this world who would be so willing to lay in bed all day on a Saturday because their boyfriend can’t find the strength to move his body. How could that have been a month ago? Felt like yesterday. 

I fall back onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. I recall that day; how not only he stayed with me, but when the sun began to set, he started making moves to get me out of bed. He played  _ Ocarina of Time _ entirely too loud, and kept asking me questions. 

_ How do I get the sword? _

_ How do I find the Castle? _

_ Who’s this bitch ass green fuck? _

Until I had to sit up and act like a living gamer guide. And I remember how it felt to rest against his back. My head on his shoulder. Mumbling strategy in his ear. Until he gave up on his act- revealed he actually beat this game when he was ten- and turned to capture my lips with his. 

I still taste him. Tobacco and licorice. Even though it’s been days. 

And I wonder how long it takes to get over someone; especially when you can’t imagine a life without them. That terrible feeling returns, and I hide underneath the covers hoping my mind could turn off long enough to get some real sleep. But it’s not in the cards. I continue to drift in the black ocean of lucid sleep. And the veil between alive and dead continues to thin. 

He never leaves my thoughts. Not entirely. I think of the five stages of grief and how the red flower in my story died before acceptance. But isn’t death a type of acceptance? I feel poison in my stomach swirl at the thought. I try to acknowledge which stage I’m in as I move through the day like the zombie I am. 

I’m in the shower when I realized we never formally broke up. Midway through washing my hair when I paused. Maybe  _ never talk to me again _ could be a break up. But I never said:  _ hey we’re broken up _ . How easy I slung those words at him before the actual event. Maybe denial was believing we could continue this charade. And bargaining was the mutual begging to stay in each other's lives even when the writing was on the wall. And anger was when it all came crashing down and I screamed in his face until my throat felt like raw, bleeding, meat. 

So this is depression; I consider. Washing the soap from my hair. 

This is depression and it hurts way too fucking much. I’m in physical pain. My bones crack with every movement. And my muscles strain just to keep my body upright. I feel the nerves burn and fray as I go through the motions of my morning ritual. 

And I go back to a month ago. After he had kissed me, he looked at me briefly like that simple action should have been enough to put me all back together. It didn’t, but I felt compelled to force it if only for his benefit. And everything hurt in much the same way, except he shouldered some of my weight. He had gotten into the shower with me, at my muted request. And helped me wash away the stale alcohol through bitter kisses up against the cold tile. Taking my face in his hands and raking his fingers along the blemishes on my skin, but tangling his fingers with my hair. And despite being naked underneath cascading water, there was nothing sexual about his actions. His eyes bore down on me, scanning the colors of my iris’ as if looking for me in the murky blues. And I could see the wheels in his brain turn as he tried to solve the problem standing before him in the guise of his boyfriend. 

Later, he leaned against my dresser, wearing only his black jeans and no shirt. As I stared at my open draw of black band shirts trying to figure out who I wanted to be that day. My eyes couldn’t focus on the task, when I had him next to me, looking like a porcelain statue that an artist would have spent decades crafting. And I couldn’t help running my eyes along his body. Arms crossed over his chest which accentuated his muscles. He stared at the wall opposite of him, eyebrows dropped, deep in a well of thoughts. My gaze falls to the scars on his body. The three faded brown brands that walk up his torso like a ladder. 

_ What does it feel like _ ? He had asked and I jumped because I felt his words penetrate my brain. Exactly what I meant to ask him. He didn’t look at me, still analyzing the cracks in the wall in front of him.  _ Depression, I mean, what does it feel like for you? _

I pondered the question,  _ No one’s asked me that before. _

_ Yeah, well, it’s a pretty rude question to ask?  _ Then he brought his eyes to me and I watched him analyze my body as I just did to him. And, thinking back, I wonder if he was looking for scars as well.  _ No real easy way to ask right?  _

_ Guess not. It’s not really discussed in high society,  _ I noted with mocking sarcasm, and he chuckles.  _ Or low, I suppose.  _ Or at all, I recalled considering. No one, except my therapist and maybe Cid, asked me why I attempted it in the first place. And I can no longer remember the bullshit answer I fed her to get her off my back and sign off on a prescription I could monetize. Even then, though, did she ever ask how it felt before? 

_ It feels like I’m drifting in the center of the ocean, with only my head above water, and there’s no lights, or land. Just me, and the open sea, and my legs treading enough water to keep me from sinking. Sometimes I can kick all day. Other times...it hurts. My legs are tired. My eyes are heavy. Sometimes...I think it’ll just be easier to slip under the water and not come up _ . 

My lips vibrated when the words tumbled over them. The image I had never vocalized, but one I lived with for years. He had reached over and pulled me so I was between his legs. He kept me there with long arms around my body and I could see the worriment etched in his blues as he looked at me. I noticed the realization flash across his face- when he had asked me if I was happy and I lied. My eyes fell to where our bodies met; I felt creeping shame crawl my spine. But immediately replaced with his nails against my skin.

_ What can I do to keep you from slipping? _

A pained laugh forced itself through my teeth.  _ No ones ever asked me that either _ . But I shook my head,  _ Not your responsibility _ . 

_ Hm,  _ he mused and shifted his body so he was standing over me.  _ I’d like to renegotiate that then. _

I rolled my eyes at him, and firmly placed my hands on his arms to try to untangle myself from his grasp.  _ Negotiations on the terms of this relationship concluded October 31, 2004. And this one isn’t up for discussion _ .

He made a noise in his throat- a cross between a laugh and a growl- that rumbled through his chest pressed against mine. And before I could unhook his arms from my body, he pulled me into a tight hug that came out of nowhere and I hesitated for a moment. Reno wasn’t a hugger. Infact, the last time he hugged me like that was the morning I came out to him. And while he enjoyed the physical attention I showered on him daily, hugging was not his style. A level of intimacy, I think, he struggled with. So, when the initial shock wore off, I wrapped my arms around his neck and buried my hands in his mess of red hair. And somehow, he pulled me impossibly close. Like he was trying to meld our bodies together. 

Against my ear he whispered,  _ I don’t go around tellin’ people I love them. That isn’t just a word to me, and this isn’t just a high school relationship; this is a partnership. And I don’t like that something is going on and I can’t see it. I love you and I don’t want to lose you. So I’m trying to figure out how to help.  _ He pulled away so he could scan my face.  _ So I just wanna know what I can do when you get too tired to keep swimmin’ _ ?

If he had any doubt about his words, he didn’t give it away. I envied the confidence. How assured he could handle my own shit on top of his own. And maybe back then, he believed he could shoulder my pain. And I wanted to hold on to that. Because I was getting tired of doing this on my own. I spent a few seconds toiling his words through my head. And I did something, that in hindsight was maybe wrong, but in the moment. In the moment it felt right. 

_ I don’t...really feel like doing much of anything when I’m like this. Thinking or anything. _ I cringed at how soft my voice felt in my throat. How different it was from the graveled assuredness from Reno.  _ Could you just call the shots for now? If it were up to me, I’d just lay in bed for the rest of the night and drown. Maybe I need to turn my brain off for a minute. You know? _

He nodded, but the smile that tugged at his lips was drenched with concern. Maybe even a bit of hesitation. That much power. I was willing to relinquish to relieve me of the burden of living.  __ He kissed me on the forehead to seal the deal. Gave me the rundown of the night: fast food, and blunts in his car while we listen to music. Then back home-  _ home _ \- to watch  _ Saw _ which he never seen.

And I remembered how tightly I wrapped my arms around his waist while we laid in my bed, watching the movie. I never felt so full. So elevated. And a smile pulled along my face everytime his body rocked from his laughter at the torture porn on the screen. I told him I wanted this forever. And he agreed, this time, with zero hesitation.

_ Fuck _ .

I curse to myself. As I stand in front of my mirror, my hands gripping the sink as I try to remain upright. I took those pills at least six hours ago, but my mind weighed heavy from the fog. And I swear my legs trembled from holding up this meatsuit. I pinch my eyes shut and try to push those images of Reno out of my brain. I don’t want to relive the good moments. I don’t want to remember how easy it was to constantly give up any control or say because I felt I could trust him with that power. He would never abuse that privilege. 

I open my eyes and stare at the white sink. Where’s anger? Where are the bad memories? The fights, the few of them we had. Why aren’t they pushing to the forefront of my mind? Why am I replaying those shared moments where he meant everything to me? It’s devastating. Mocking even. Because right now, in this moment of self-reflection, staring at the open drain, I want to call him. And only him. And ask him to come over and call the shots so I can make it another day at school. 

And the sad truth, he would. Without even a second thought. 

Which...makes me think: who really had the power in this relationship?

The knock on my door breaks me from my thoughts; my mother telling me to hurry up so she can take me to school. I offer her a grunt as a response and she vanishes for the time being. I look at myself in the mirror. The bruises have begun to fade, but the scars remain somewhere underneath the flesh. And I acknowledge that I look older than sixteen suddenly. Like I’ve aged ten years in three days. I might have even grown for one final time- maybe dad was right about 5’11. But I am still hunched over like I can’t force my bones to stand straight, and confident, and alert.

I don’t feel like I’m in an ocean, as much as maybe this is a swamp. And it’s heavy around my brittled body. No amount of growing, or aging, is going to keep me safe from what lies under the surface. 

I open the top draw on the sink like I’m being pulled by a string. And on top, where I left it, Cid’s straight razor. The one his dad gave him for his thirteenth birthday. Which has his initials engraved on the metal. I’ve laid waste to all my friendships. Hurt the people closest to me. The only healthy relationship I’ve experienced has completely fallen apart. 

And I have felt this helpless before. 

* * *

I keep counting the seconds in my head as my mom drives me to school. I had all but made the decision to use the razer until I saw her downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Her hair blown out in light brown waves that framed her slender face. She adorned a black pencil skirt and baby blue button up shirt tucked in. Like she was going to a business lunch and needed to impress her boss. When I emerged into the kitchen, she tilted her head to the side, the modest studs in her ear glimmering against the new morning light. She smiled when she saw me. I noticed she was wearing the necklace and bangle my dad got her for Christmas and my lips twitched at the sight of her. 

“Dad’s gonna throw a fit if he smells the smoke,” I scolded. 

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” She winked. 

She’s overdressed for a meeting with a school advisor for continuing education. But I thought about how the effort that went into picking out the outfit, the simple makeup on her face, the time it took to wash and blow out her hair. This was more for her than for the school. Or maybe, and I only thought this when she walked over to me and tried fixing my own still wet hair, she did this for me. She spoke the whole ride about her plans for the day. She wanted to get a job, was thinking about calling Tifa’s mom about working at the daycare and I cringed. I didn’t know what Tifa told her mom, but I didn’t want her to tell my mother anything before I had a chance to- if I decided to...I guess. But my mother was dedicated to getting her life back. The one alcohol had tried to rob her of. And I knew in that moment, if I tried anything- worse if I am successful this time- all of her effort would be for nothing. Weighed down by the guilt. 

But I still took the razor with me. Tucked in my messenger bag next to the pack of cigarettes my benefactor left behind. A strange juxtaposition between life and death. I turn the images in my head as my mom pulls in front of the school. 

“Need a ride home?” she inquires. 

I shrug, “I’ll let you know?” 

“Okay,” she forces a smile before running her manicured fingers through my hair forcing me to look at her. “Cloud, what’s wrong?”

This is the perfect time to tell her. And even as the thought passes through my head, I feel sick. But I just shake my head and tell her. “Everything’s fine.”

She bites her lip and I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “We are going to start family therapy,” she begins, slowly, as if delivering bad news, “and I am thinking we should all get individual therapy as well.”

I nod but I keep my mouth shut. She frowns as she continues, “Therapy really only works if you want help. We can’t force you to get better. I really want this to be your choice, too.”

“Okay,” I mumble, “I mean, whatever helps us, right?”

She doesn’t seem satisfied with that sentiment. And I wonder what she’s trying to do. What she knows. Does she really have this sixth sense when it comes to me? Does she read minds all of a sudden now that alcohol hasn’t clouded her mind? I tell her goodbye, and I’ll call her around lunch if I need a ride home- play it off like I might go to the afternoon game, or Barret may give me a lift even though neither of those options exist. 

I step out of the car, into the cold without a proper jacket. New York City weather continues to be a fickle bitch. And before I close the door my mom tells me to wait. I snap my eyes at her. 

“Cloud, step one is admitting to yourself that the problem has become unmanageable,” she pauses and I watch her eyes dart around my form, and I wonder if like Reno did a month ago, she’s looking for scars. “But you have to seek out the help--”

“What makes you think something’s wrong?” I bite, “I’m fine. If something was wrong, I’d tell you.”

And she shakes her head, “No you wouldn’t.” My turn to frown. Bitter and angry at her sudden intrusion. “You and I are a lot more alike than I had hoped. And I don’t want to pull a  _ your father _ and give you an ultimatum but…” she trails off and then sighs loudly. “I just want to make sure we’re giving you every opportunity to succeed. You’ve been looking down since I’ve gotten back and I just-”

“Mom. Stop it.” I beg, “I’ll do whatever it is you want me to do. Just drop it, please.”

Her face changes. Contorts into disappointment and she turns towards the front of the car with a soft shake of her head. “We need to talk about something when you get home today. Okay?”

I grit my teeth, “Fine.” And slam the door as hard as I could muster. I don’t wait for her to pull away, I make my way into the school, too distraught to even smoke a cigarette. Because I could read her face like an open book. Like she did me. And she knows I am the one who has stolen her medication. And she knows that the problem I am facing goes well beyond typical teenage angst, or depression, or anxiety. That my problem could have legal repercussions if not put under control. I don’t even know how to argue my stance. What words could I possibly feed her? Denials? Apologies? She’s giving me the entire school day to either find an excuse or to come clean.

And I have no idea which route to choose. 

I make it to my locker in record time. But lungs start to seize when I open the door- not even noticing if the graffiti from yesterday has been washed away and replaced with something new. I even consider telling the janitor to not bother erasing the vile words as they appear. Like a spider web, they’ll just rebuild with more force. And fuck, they’ll eventually get creative. I’m trying to catch my breath, steady my hands as I replace text books for what I need. Count seconds. Read the words on the books slowly. When I slam my hand into my bag, I feel the razor. And something toxic weasels into my thoughts. And I feel the tears brimming in my eyes.

“Cloud?” 

I look to my right and Reeve Tuesti stands next to me, gripping his own taupe bag firm. I arch an eyebrow at the sudden appearance of one of Rufus’ lap dogs. And he looks a cross between perplexed and riddled with nerves. His black hair grown out to nearly outside of school code. And his normally clean shaven face buds with sporadic black hair that could maybe be considered a beard. Dark circles that plague his dark eyes, intensifying his features. He looks like shit. 

“Hey,” he clears his throat, “How’s it, uh, going?”

“Fucking swell, how do you think it’s going?” I snap. 

He nods, understanding the reason behind my attitude. Then he shifts, tries to stand up straight with false confidence. “So, I wanted to apologize…”

“For?” I can’t think of a single thing his kid has done to me that would warrant an apology. And my defenses wise, putting to rest the panic that gripped me for a moment. A temporary fix. 

Reeve drops his eyes and hesitates before curving his mouth around the words, “I’m Fireman O’toole...”

“Excuse me?” I enunciate every syllable with the sharpness of a new knife. And I see the beads of sweat form on his forehead. “Rufus said  _ he _ is Fireman O’toole.” 

“Rufus was protecting me,” he trembles.

And something in my snaps. I grab him by the collar of his blazer and slam him against the metal lockers, sending a shockwave of sound down the emptying hallway. My eyes are fire. And I see my reflection vibrate in his blacke iris’. 

“Talk, now.”

“Uh, I-I’m the original one. R-Rufus figured it out and didn’t tell anyone,” he stutters and I get closer to him in silent warning to talk about more  _ recent events _ , “Then he told me to restore the page and post that picture of you with the title. He said if I didn’t do it he’ll tell everyone I’m the original Fireman O’Toole!” I press him against the locker with more force. “And the school! Cloud! I’m not like the rest of you, I can’t buy my way back in if I get expelled, okay? My dad’s a Public defender, he doesn’t make that much! If I fuck up, it’s all over.”

The desperation in his voice. And the realization, that I’ve hung out with this kind plenty and times, never once did I ask him his story. I release him. Try to dissect what he just spewed. He’s shaking like a leaf caught in a tornado, trying to hold on to a branch before being torn apart. I narrow my eyes, “You called yourself a faggot for an entire blog post once?” I ask unconvinced. 

But he straightens out his blazer, trying to remain steadfast, but his face matches the color of our ties. “Everyone else was callin me one; I figured I’d just own it.”

The sick feeling in my stomach returns. And he returns the pinch glare I offer him- I was one of those people. And now, I can reflect, that was overcompensating on my part. But doesn’t change how wrong it was at the time. And while he does look apologetic face to face with his victim, maybe he owed a little bit of revenge. 

I run my tongue along my teeth and try to think about what to do with this information. It doesn’t bring comfort. Just adds to the list of people who watched this unfold and did nothing to stop it from happening. I try to think of bible verses about bystanders during evil events, but I’m all out of Religious allegory. 

“Delete it,” I say, “Delete the page and the picture.”

His eyes widen, “I can’t! I mean-” He swallows hard, “I want to, but Rufus will get Reno or Rude to kick my ass.” 

“And if you don’t I’ll fuck you up? So take your pick.” 

The way he huffs, I wonder if he believes I could or would beat the shit out of him. But honestly, the pain in my muscles subsided for a moment when I considered rocking his jaw with my fist. I also want to point out that despite being friends with Rufus, Reno and Rude ain’t coming for Reeve. He’s pathetic at best and nothing would come from it. Hell, Reno could probably just convince the kid to kick his own ass if he felt so motivated by whatever blackmail Rufus can present. Reeve, meanwhile, seems to consider my words as I throw particularly vile looks in his direction. And the longer he stands there in silence, the more the rage bubbles to the surface. 

“Fine,” he sighs, “I’ll delete it.”

“Now.” I push.

“I can’t  _ now _ , the school has Myspace blocked.”

“You expect me to believe you can’t bypass that shit?” I counter. He acts like I don’t remember the original. His pathetic posts during the school day; just to twist the knife of paranoia. He can easily delete the page without much of an effort. Even if it doesn’t change anything. I know everyone’s seen the photo. It’s possible some sick fuck even saved it incase the site went down. But at least it won’t be hanging there, in the web, for anyone else to stumble upon. 

“Okay,” Reeve nods, “I’ll get rid of it now.”

I slam my locker shut and take some pleasure in how he jumps from the intrusive sound. “By the way,” I narrow my eyes at the smaller boy, “Why? Why bother telling me if Rufus already covered your ass?”

The raven-haired boy curls his lips inward without breaking eye contact. “Look, if we’re being completely honest here: I think you’re kind of an asshole. But no one deserves to be outed like this. The more I thought about it, the more I felt like shit.” He folds his arms over his chest, “I knew it was wrong, even if you sold drugs to his sister. I mean, Rufus does the same thing all the time. The whole thing felt dirty. Wrong. Like I am part of some…” he scrunches his face in disgust, “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t concrete on anything. I keep thinking that you’re going to do something to yourself, or...someone’s going to realize it was me. Cid’s already giving me second glances during Lacrosse practice. And I swear Aerith is following me.” Then he whispers to himself, “She’s scary.” And I even allow a smile push through my own face. 

“I just thought,” he continues with a soft nod, “You deserved to at least know all the players in the game.”

I grunt but pull my eyes away from his, back to my locker which has been cleared of the slur. “The players…” 

“I’m sorry,” and I can hear the tense regret in his words, “I don’t expect you to forgive me or anything. But I really am sorry this happened to you…”

I offer him a stone look, before returning to the faded metal of my locker. 

Something isn’t sitting right- and I have been so concerned with the mounting issues piling up in my life.

I’m due for an avalanche. 

Reeve bids me a strained goodbye before departing. But I roll his words through my head. Still too much to figure out from Saturday night, and I am no longer sure if I can believe Sephiroth’s recollection of events. I think back to his excuse. He blacked out. Took too much K. But then he remembered me crying on my phone. He remembered driving us home. So how does he not remember a guy on top of me- and someone snapping pictures? There’s no text exchange between Reno and I on my phone and I’m sure he deleted any damning evidence that would have his parents second guess him again. And I can’t trust Sephiroth to give me the whole story. 

Then there’s only one more person I could confront, and I’m not sure if I have enough money to make him talk.

* * *

Genesis Rhapsodos spends sixth period leaning against his father’s white 2004 Infiniti G35, toying with his phone- weather permitting. It’s mid-forties, cold enough for me, who decided against a jacket and relying on the navy blazer for warmth, but Gen looks comfortable in his expensive leather jacket. Everyone knows the nefarious deals he partakes in out here. I’m sure even the school has a suspicion, but considering the amount of money his family “donates” to the Church on a yearly basis, I’m sure he could commit actual murder and get away with it. Thus, I’m not exactly excited to approach him- but I can’t bring myself to even look at Reno’s direction, especially with how conflicted my feelings have been- so Gen’s my only option to fill in the blanks of my memory. 

I approach him with forced boldness. But I’m sure he can smell my lack of conviction when I stand in front of him. His whole 6’3 form towering over me like a skyscraper and I curse my short stature in the face of a giant with an unconcerned expression on his blank face. 

“I need to talk to you,” I announce. 

“I don’t talk to children,” he grumbles, “Unless you’re buying shit.”

“What you got?” I flash the hundred dollar bill quickly, placing my hand back in my pocket. He sighs and lifts his body off the trunk of the car, popping it open to examine his stash. I scan briefly, not really interested in the plethora of illegal substances, but I settle on an 8th of weed. However, he looks at me like that’s small scale and not worth his time. “Fine, and three sticks.”

He gathers my purchase in silence, and I lick my lips trying to will my mouth to move. “So, I wanted to ask you about Saturday-”

“Didn’t you talk to Sephiroth?” he darts his eyes at me like two pointed guns, “Why you askin’ me shit?”

“He doesn’t remember…” My voice trails off when the smirk dances along his stone features, making him look more like a Batman villain than a teenage boy with too much freedom. “At least, that’s what he says. Just wanted to know if you recalled me...with a guy or...whatever.”

He rolls the baggie with three white pills in his hands, contemplating for a moment his answer. Considering if I’m worth the trouble. He’s a senior, he’s got sights set outside of Staten Island. I’m the equivalent of a cockroach that follows his friend around like an unwanted sibling. And while we’ve never exchanged blows, we never exchanged kind words. The feeling is mutual. No love loss here. And I’m expecting him to just overcharge me for my purchase and then tell me to fuck off. 

“For the record,” he starts, “I fucking can’t stand your shit.”

“You and the entire fucking school.” I roll my eyes. 

“Yeah, you’re kind of a cunt,” he stands up straight; dark eyes scanning my form like a machine. The pause thunders like a storm and I can’t believe what I am bearing witness to, when I see Genesis features relax. 

“Seph showed up with you and some junkie kid I’ve seen around at like 1am at my boys place. You were fucking  _ done _ . I told him to take your fucked up ass home but he didn’t want to listen.” He narrows his eyes at me, his voice drops impossibly low- deep like the darkest parts of the ocean- and I have to assume he wants me to strain my ears. Really listen to his words. “You all did a bump of K- I tried talking you out of it but you wanted to spiral, so, fuck it.” he shakes his head, “Waste. You couldn’t even keep your head up. Then Seph started fucking with the junkie kid. He was begging for more drugs anything, so... Seph said if yous two made out and let him take pictures, he would give the kid whatever shit he wanted.”

My vision spins. Nausea rises from the depths of my stomach. Nothing makes sense. It doesn’t make sense. I close my eyes to steady the floor beneath me that tilts back and forth. And I swear I’m going to fall over the edge any second. “Uhm,” I start, my mouth as dry as the desert, “Did...did he..uhm-”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” he says sternly, “I have no idea what else they did to you. I saw the picture. That’s the extent of what I know. I was in the other room getting my dick sucked by some bitch- couldn’t give two shits what happened to you but…” Another pause. I open my eyes and I see a new emotion on his face, one that I never expect from someone like Genesis. Sympathy. “Everything over the clothes. My boy ain’t gonna let two guys fuck in his apartment. That shit doesn't fly. He was already getting tight with Seph. Kicked you all out pretty soon after that.”

From the way he pinches his lips shut, the conversation is over. “Well?” He flashes his hand holding the 8th and small baggy with three pills I didn’t want. But I’m suddenly overwhelmed. Violated? Like someone infected me with a poison that started taking affect. 

“How much?”

“Just give me the hundred,” he responds listlessly.

“Come on, your shit’s midrange,” I try to argue, “seventy at best.”

“Extra 30 for having to talk to you.”

I roll my eyes, no use debating. We make the exchange and I shove my purchase with the rest of my poor decisions in my messenger bag. I don’t even know where to begin with the information he provided; and I’m about to head back to the school to lament my life. When he calls back. 

“Yo, don’t fucking overdose on my shit,” he barks. I arch an eyebrow at his outburst. “Not like I care about you or anything. It’s bad for business if a client ODs.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it…” 

“Good,” he looks at his phone for a split second, then back at me, “Also, for the record. I don’t hate you cause you’re gay- don’t get that shit twisted. There’s so many better reasons to hate you. Like being a cry baby bitch all through middle school and being the absolutely worst drug dealer I’ve ever met.” He shrugs at my disorientated gaze. “You know.” He removes his eyes from me again, and I’m left standing in the middle of the parking lot dazed. 

Leave it to Genesis, senior drug dealer and misogynist, to be the most progressive in the school. He really didn’t give a fuck, returning to his regular position on his car, arms over his chest, boredly checking his cell phone for any potential new conquest. Can’t tell if I have grown a new, misplaced respect for the cold hearted boy or I’m just grasping for anyone to treat me like I’m actually a human. How pathetic, I ponder as I walk back into the school, that the kindest word I’ve received in the recent days comes from a douchebag who frequently bullied me during my high school career. 

But the minute of euphoria dissipates. Back in the stone walls of the school with my questions having devastating answers. I know enough; after I fist fought my actual best friend over my childhood friend, I called the one villain in my life and allowed him to-

It sounds wrong to think-take advantage of my altered state. The sickness I feel overpowers everything else that surrounds me. From the crushing sad of no longer being with my boyfriend. To the self-reflecting disappointment that I crossed a line with multiple friends. The shame of stealing my mother’s drugs, then buying some more because I’m in a cyclone and I can’t crawl my way out. 

This-I’m thankful for the blackout. So I can’t remember stranger hands on my body. Lips on mine. I want to throw up and I wonder if this is what Aerith felt when I caught Sephiroth trying the same act on her. Filthy, like I’ve been crawling in mud and dirt. 

I duck into the bathroom, but not to smoke. 

In the silence of the cold afternoon, I look at myself in the mirror. A real good look. 

Still bruised. Cut still on my lip from aggravating the wound from biting back all the screams that wish to escape my throat. Bloodshot eyes from lack of sleep, wet now from revelations I can’t even begin to process. This has to be rock bottom. I finally crash landed. Bones broken and my will to pick myself up lost somewhere in my faded mind. 

_ The bottom is where you find the foundation to stand _ . 

Now I have to decide; am I going to stand or sink. 

* * *

Willful ignorance. I claim this virus plagues my parents, but maybe it’s genetic. I should have known the kind of person Sephiroth has always been- not turned into. I don’t know why it took me so long to remove the sunglasses and really see him. Especially since this isn’t the first time. But I can’t unpack all that , not when there’s too much happening in the present- the past can wait. 

Sephiroth can be found seventh period with the rest of his boys sitting at the bleachers, watching the junior girls run sprints around the track, like a bunch of wicked vultures. I’m missing gym for this; but find this encounter to be more important than staring at a dumbbell trying to find the strength in my muscles to lift even a measly twenty pounds. I walk past the fence that separates the field from the rest of the school; the chain links acting like a strobe light- making the movements of the silver haired boys look mechanical. Robotic. My stomach drops when I see Sephiroth in the center, leaning against the bleachers with a smirk on his chiseled face, as he eyes Scarlet like a potential kill. 

I call him. Not knowing if he’ll even answer, but I don’t want to chance approaching him while he’s surrounded by his minions. I watch as he pulls out his phone, his face contorts into a frown but he answers. 

“You got some ball-”

“I know what you did to me,” My words spring from my mouth like a bullet. He sits up straight and waits for me to continue. “Meet me behind the church, we need to talk.” I hang up before he has a chance to argue. I pause in front of the fence for a few frantic beats of my heart. I can see the curves of his face move like a snake as he weighs his options. Once he rises, I make my way to the spot. My fingers tremble. Sweat forms along my hairline despite the cool air that freezes the beads before the fall.

What am I supposed to say? I realize I don’t have a plan. He could easily deny everything. Then inquire who the snitch was- and like I’m going to sell out Genesis and risk another enemy. 

_ Watch it Cloud, you’re making more enemies than friends these days _ .

I hear Seph’s heavy footsteps behind me. I swing around and he stands out against the red brick of the Church as he approaches me. His expression blank as he drags his eyes over me with complete disregard. I could be any other pathetic stack of nerves and bones. He tilts his head, pointed glare, with his arms over his chest- waiting for me to unhook my jaw that has suddenly chosen to lock in this moment. 

I swallow the last bit of nerves. “I know what you-”

“You said that already,” he hisses, “Try again.”

I attempt to gather all seventy-one inches of my form to stand straight. “The picture. I know it was you who took it. I know you sent it to Reno. I know you texted Rufus. And I know you were the one egging on the junkie-”

Sephiroth unleashes a baleful laugh, “You think you know everything but you don’t even know who was on top of you?”

A shudder passes through me, but he’s derailing- and the Rufus and Reno comment were bluffs. I don’t have confirmation he was at the other end of those texts. But the twinkle in his glowing hazel eyes tells me what I need to know. “The fuck gives a shit.  _ You _ got him to make out with me, while I was blacked out, and then took pictures.” I pause to stare directly into those two orbs that look like tiny planets spiraling in the blackness of space. “It was you. All of it. You were the one who outed me.”

The click of his tongue sounds like a timer about to go off. Then he shrugs, as if this conversation, this revelation, could be the most tedious encounter of his life. “Whatever.”

“No!” I bark back finding the deepness of my voice a chilling cold that shocks me. And Sephiroth arches a silver eyebrow at my sudden outburst. “Not  _ whatever _ . Twelve years, bro. Twelve fucking years of being friends. And you  _ let  _ some fucked up kid abuse me? For what?”

“Alright, chill out, no one  _ abused you _ , drama queen.” He waves me off, “So, he kissed you a few times? You were into it.”

“The hell I was,” I gather as much force in my voice as possible, “I was practically unconscious!?”

Another slow shrug. His face never cracks. Everything, from the monotonous tone of his voice to his aloof stance further insults me. The weight of my words don’t even seem to reach his mountainous heights. He truly, without a doubt, simply does not care. And that has got to be the most formidable rejection. The hours I spent caressing his ego, being his punching bag, offering him sanctuary in my house- at the risk of my own mental health. I threw away the most productive relationship I’ve been in for him. I shake my head; shock takes over all the other terrifying emotions that beat against my brain like a bass drum. 

“Why?” I ask; pleading force dripping on the single word. My last attempt to find the friend I thought existed within his menacing form. 

“Why?” he parrots back with a condescending tone. “Because I could.” 

And that’s it. That simple. 

How effortless. Even now, there’s not even a flash of regret in his eyes. His lips flick upwards as he relishes the outcome of his game. And that’s all this was; a game he played for his own amusement. Reno, Rufus, and I mere pawns. Pieces he could coil his hands around and snap. Like the action figures he laid waste to when I was five; just plastic he could rip apart when he became bored. Because he  _ could _ .

And I have just made it so fucking easy for him. 

“Though I’m kinda pissed,” he leans against the wall of the church, bringing his eyes to the sky, “I wanted Rufus to out that bitch Reno, too; guess I’ll have to find ano-”

My vision blurred. And I feel disconnected from my actions. But I recognize that when he uttered Reno’s name with a pinch of salt I couldn’t ignore, I curled my fist. And before he could finish his vile thought, that fist connected with his jaw and sent his head into the red brick wall with a fascinating jerk. 

Pain doesn’t shoot up my arm. 

Satisfying tingles dancing along my bone, instead. 

And my turn to smile when blood cascades from his head. 

And before he can acknowledge the red liquid also flowing from his lip, I catch the other side of his  _ pretty _ face with a left hook I didn’t know existed until knuckles catch the point of his nose. Smashing it with a stumble back. His grunt sounds my guitar in drop D. Rumbles through my chest. 

And this exhilaration that courses through my bloodstream feels both new and familiar. Like a dream I’ve revisited. And I relish the look. The shock. The shock that mirrors my turmoil. I finally surprised him. Flashes of agony well in his face; uncontrolled. 

I think about how much I’ve wanted this-  _ holy shit- _ better than any violence I could inflict upon myself. And I want to enjoy in the satisfaction of turning a threat he slung at me right back- and I can only say I was distracted by floating memories that boiled to the top- but I’m struck back. 

I stumble when the trembling eruption explodes on my right cheek. And as I tumble to the floor I think,  _ fuck _ . I need to stop letting people get me in the face. Sephiroth is one top of me- the smile gone replaced with a scowl drenched in red. He clocks me in the jaw again. And I choke on the blood, before gathering enough sense to return a pathetic clip to the side of his temple. He’s stun for a minute. Long enough for me to knee him in the torso, right near that healing rib. 

The sound he makes, like a kicked dog in the middle of a snarl. He rolls off me and I try to crawl away, my head swimming into a mess of colors. He manages to extend his long arm to snatch a fist full of hair. And the next thing, my face slams against the concrete. Skin splinters like the broken glass on Johnny’s door. The rush of hot liquid running down my face like an untamed river. A high pitch echo splices through my ear like a gun going off too close for comfort. I see nothing by the blur of the sky spiraling as if I’m crashing. 

_ Fucking move _ .

I hear a voice, my voice, scream. I try to steady my eyes enough to catch him crawling like a spider back up me. And I anticipate the blow; he screams through the pain to lift his arm-to crash down on me like a hammer. And for a second

I remember my birthday. When I caught him on top of my girlfriend. And I heard soft  _ no’s _ from her mouth while he pressed himself on top of her. And white-hot rage took over the vodka mind, and I jumped on his back and clawed my nails into his neck with enough force to drag him off her. And instead of backing down, he fought back. And the last thing I could remember before I went pitch black- his face, like a roadmap of jagged mountains and his fist slamming into my face, too drunk to block. 

Not drunk now. I catch his fist in my hand and with all the force I have-despite my muscles weighing as heavy as metal and my bones as weak as plywood-I shove him off my bruised form. And end his assault with a swift kick to his stomach.

He clutches the wound. Sputtering slurs through broken breaths. I push myself up- the whole world moving like a topsy-turvy ride- and try to ride the wave of adrenaline that sparks through my body like firecrackers on the fourth of July. And through bloodied teeth

I start laughing.

A hysterical. Hyena.

Laugh. That breaks through the silence of the vacated Church yard like a clap electricity. 

And I’m not sure what’s funny about this situation. That I finally fought back inside of cowering in the corner? That the current tragedy to befall my life was started because a kid was bored one day at a party? The ridiculousness of the simple reality. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline like a drug starting to wear off.

Or Maybe if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry and I’m done letting him be the source of my tears. 

_ Boys don’t cry _

I chuckle again. 

_ They punch walls, and shitty ex-boyfriends, and even shittier best friends _ . 

Sephiroth stares back at me, still clutching his side, with a crazed look in his eyes. Like if he were any closer he would silence my laughter for good. The feeling when I see the red that dyes his pearly white teeth is more satisfying than sex. And I laugh even harder. 

“Go ahead,” I growl, “Go tell everyone how I kicked your ass.” 

His lips curl into an unsettling smirk, “Snitches get stitches, Cloud. I ain’t a bitch.”

Warped honor code- one we share. But part of me wants him to spread the word. Finally, I have him clutching his wounds and trembling. I beat him. And if the consequence is my expulsion from this God forsaken school, I’m not complaining. I’ll go to New Dorp with Tifa- if she ever forgives me- and be able to walk through a school in clothes I’m comfortable in; not this straight jacket that hinders my expression. And no one will care if I’m the gay kid. And there’s no religion to push down my throat in an effort to conform me. I can be free. Maybe. Finally free.

I’m living in a dream. I don’t notice Seph lays on his back to breathe through his pain until his voice, dark and damning, snakes into my ears. “I’m going to hurt him.” 

I snap my eyes at him. His tone devoid of any emotion, I’m rendered silent. 

“I’m going to hurt him real bad,” he continues, “In front of you.”

He plays the pronoun game, but I know who he’s talking about. And I know the next words out of my mouth need to be carefully chosen. I can’t tell if this is a blank threat- something he’s saying to trigger me. The idea that he could hurt someone I care about.  _ He’s done it before right?  _ I think back to Aerith. His lack of shame. His brewing hatred for those associated with me. There’s a splash of hope- maybe these are ramblings from a brain bleed. Maybe if I just walk away, he’ll forget. Forget about Reno. 

But I grit my teeth. 

Pick myself up through my joints protests. I can feel the blood running down my face, reopened wounds, staining my uniform. Sephiroth doesn’t move; only strangled chuckles sputter from his lips. I glide towards him, standing over his broken form to scan for any semblance of sanity. He’s deranged. The blood giving him a grimmjow smile. His eyes like a serpent; glowing. 

“You like that twink sucking your dick, huh?” he coughs, “gonna be real hard when I break his jaw.”

I twitch. The adrenaline starts to fade. Reality sets in. But I hold on to one more bit of deviance. I press my shoe on Sephiroth’s shoulder. His eyes shake. Sparks of pain he tries to hide don’t offer the same satisfaction. I scan his face as I recall the game he’s played. The fights he’s actually been in; few and drug fueled. His attacks on me were his only success. I should be concerned. But I’m not. 

Reno has people around him who protect him. Rude, Tseng, even Rufus. And I know if push comes to shove. If Sephiroth tried anything…

I might actually kill him. 

I release the pressure off his shoulder and he sighs in relief. 

“Chill, Sephiroth,” my own voice extinguished of any flame. Cold. “It’s fucking high school, bro.”

I leave him lying there on the concrete under the hot sun. His harsh breaths dying in the wind. I vacant the school grounds, my destination unknown. I can imagine the scene- a battered private school boy walking the streets of Staten Island with blood dripping from open wounds- could gardner unwanted attention. 

But I don’t care. 

I feel my entire self retracting. Preparing for the inevitable Tsunami wave to destroy me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was hard because I had no idea where the break it up aha. I actually almost didn't include the fight with Seph but you know, I'm tired of that asshole getting away with shit. So, I know this is a long chapter and a ton of shit happened, but I felt we all deserved to see Cloud stand up for himself. I was also unsure about the first part of the chapter. Part of it came from me missing writing Reno and Cloud together, but also kind of a shout out to my husband who is such a Reno- and when I was having some episodes last week and couldn't move from the couch, he held me and made me feel better. Just ordered me food and called me pretty. 
> 
> So what did you guys think of the reveals! Reeve is really Fireman O'Toole and Rufus covered??? Genesis is...almost a good guy??? Sephiroth continues to be straight up trash?? I threw an Aerith shout out to BoundlessAether who missed her last chapter, and I agreed! Just a reminder that sometimes when we think we're alone, we really aren't. It's easy when depression hits to fall into that blackhole and ignore the world. People love you! Sometimes I have to remember that too. 
> 
> Also, I have caught up with the chapters AHHHHHHHH. I'm halfway through Monday's update. It will probably be another longer one. Hopefully it gets done by Monday, but I might need to shoot for a Tuesday update. 
> 
> SO LET me know what you all think! Love hearing from everyone! Welcome to the new fans who just found this fic. Thanks for reccing this to your friends. Thanks again for all your support!! <3 <3 (Also, we need to totally start a Cleno book club, just saying!)


	31. Dynamite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recall the deeds as if they're all  
> Someone else's atrocious stories  
> Now you stand reborn before us all  
> So glad to see you well  
> And not to pull your halo down  
> Around your neck and tug you to the ground  
> But I'm more than just a little curious  
> How you're planning to go about making your amends  
> To the dead
> 
> \--The Noose by A Perfect Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW:  
> Drug Abuse  
> Troubling parent interactions  
> Suicide Ideation  
> Child abuse

I thought beating Sephiroth would bring me satisfaction. 

I thought finding out the truth would bring me closure. 

I travel home-ditching the rest of school- waiting for the dopamine to hit. Forty three minutes to the Huguenot train station, nerves start to tense as I think about the consequences to leaving Seph a bloodied mess on the floor. His friends finding him or him crawling to the nurse. The questions they will ask him- and how long will that faux honor code hold. The train, devoid of conscious life, offers a type of humming silence- like a mirror to reflect.

A meth head sitting at the other end of the train, the only other battered soul, reveals himself with a pitiful moan; head hanging over his body as he struggles to keep himself upright. Brown hair matted a clinging to his scalp. And every time the train makes a turn his head flies back and I can see his face marked with scabs, his chapped lips hanging open. No control. His limbs look more like rubber and I can see the black tracks along his arms. Clothing covered in streaks of mud and speckles of what could possibly be dried blood; but he’s wearing a Jets t-shirt, that drapes over his bones like a blanket, and white Jordans. And despite his worn face creased with wrinkles and dark circles, he looks like he could be closer to my age. I cringe. This kid could easily be from one of the upper-middle class houses that line Tottenville. He probably has a mother wondering where he is right now; at the end of her own rope. 

It’s easy to pretend addicts are the poor who live in the slums and projects. 

Make them invisible. 

I pull my eyes away and stare at the trashed floor. The smell of piss and body odor familiar for this mode of transportation that it took fifteen minute to register the stench. How easy it is to judge. But here I sit with blood on my white shirt, and blood on my tie that blends with the fabric, and new bruises on old bruises. And the only reason why I may dodge the stares in my direction will come from the uniform which reveals my status. But how close am I to becoming that junkie on the train, or the junkie screaming obscenities on the ferry, or even the junkie on my body begging for their next fix. This is where it starts. 

I get off at the St. George terminal and duck into a filthy bathroom to clean myself up. Avoid directly looking at myself in the mirror, because if I’m faced with my reflection I might consider doing what so many other hopeless souls have done in the past. The right side of my face tingles from broken nerves. Taste metal and salt in my mouth. I try wetting a piece of brown paper towel to alleviate the feeling of sandpaper against my skin as I wipe my forehead. The bathroom smells like straight up shit and I can’t stand to be in for more than two minutes. I consider jumping on the ferry, going into Manhattan and walking the busy city streets. Drown in the sea of monotonous grey buildings and vacant faces. But to where? I need a direction-

I start laughing again.

Why the fuck am I at the ferry? 

The numbers over the entrance of the terminal scream 2:45 in my face. Schools out.. And when I look at my phone I actually have a text from Reno. My stomach turns. He must be worried if he’s going against my vicious demand.

 _Never talk to me again-_ Words I've spewed in anger. 

I guess there's a line. But I don't open the message. There's nothing he can say- nothing now. 

I hit my head with the phone; flinch when I scrape the cut on my head. I have no idea how to fucking get home from here. I’ve lived on this island my entire life. But I hardly ever left the wealthy community on top of the hill. Especially alone. Pathetic. And I used up all my money buying drugs, so I can’t even call a cab. 

I feel eyes on me.

I pretend to look at my phone, but out of my peripheral, I see two Police officers looking at me and exchanging words. And one of them is the same bald cop that keeps giving Barret shit everytime we travel to this part of the island. And with my broken face, and it still being technically a school day, I know they are waiting to approach me. Probably wondering what school my uniform colors represent- if it’s worth the paperwork fucking with a white kid in the projects. 

I swallow the bile that lurches into my throat at the mere idea of having to speak to a cop right now. With 3 xanax and an 8th of weed in my bag. Pretty sure that’s intent to sell. 

I shut my phone and head back towards the train stop, opposite direction. I could put on my most ridiculous fake accent and pretend I’m some German exchange student lost in the great big city. But then I’d have to both open my mouth which feels heavy and then recall my second language which would require brain function that I’m sure is completely void right now. I find a map instead. Try to remember boy scouts. Laugh again at the memory of me getting lost with my dad in the Green Belt when I was seven. And how he was able to keep his cool even though I was crying. And I knew he had to be afraid. Because my dad would have been yelling at me for crying like a baby. _Boys don’t cry, Cloud_. But instead he told me to close my eyes-

Take a deep breath. 

Count to ten.

 _For ten seconds you can be afraid, Cloud_. 

_But when you open your eyes, you have to be brav_ e. 

And we did it together, he held my hand. And then told me everything will be okay. 

_Dad’s got this, kiddo._

I close my eyes. 

I thought I hit rock bottom.

Count to ten.

But I guess there’s more floors to fall through. 

I open my eyes. I scan the map next to the train times and follow the tracks. If I get off at the Dongan Hills stop and walk up, I could get home. I stare at the map until I have it memorized and try to pinch away the headache that begins to form so I can concentrate. Brutal. I consider taking one of the xanax in my bag, dry, and relax. But I don’t know if the white stick is cut with anything. I grind my teeth and decide to deal with the headache and throbbing bruises sober until I get home. Maybe the first good decision I’ve made all day. 

This train fills with students from S.I Technical School or LaGuardia. They don’t have to wear uniforms. And yet, every student on the train looks better than I do. Some have button down shirts tucked into dress pants. Some wear cardigans over polos with cargo pants. Some throw strangled glances in my direction. Their faces contort when they see me. A few girls who noticed me in the corner move to the other end of the train to get as far away from me. Fucking irony. And a new sensation claims me during the 15 minute train ride: shame. Utter, hopeless, shame. And the shame runs deeper than my destroyed look in front of strangers. 

And I have an entire twenty-five minute walk to dwell on all the different, uncomfortable feelings that take turns beating me over the head. I’m exhausted from all of this. It’s possible to feel too much- and maybe that makes me more like my mother. How she must feel her own regret. Why she drowned herself in alcohol every day. I recall a story that Emily Dickenson felt too much, and it overwhelmed her to the point she locked herself indoors for a time. Because even a flower blossoming in her backyard filled her with too much emotion. Unbearable. Maybe if I write everything out, I’d feel better. But that would mean going through every event that has caused me this much pain. And I really don’t want to relive those memories again. 

By the time I reach my house, it’s 3:30. The muscles in my legs burn. My arms feel connected to weights. My face pulses, and I can still feel some blood leaking from reopened wounds. I’m sweating through my uniform; my hair grown out and sticking to my forehead. And all of this punctuated by this devastating emptiness. Like I’m just floating through the vacuum of space. 

I pull out my phone and I have one more missed call from Reno timed 3:00pm. My finger hovers over the call back button. It’s become painfully clear that I need help. And it’s also clear I can’t hold myself up anymore. He’s proven his ability to carry some of the burden-

But I don’t even know what to say. How pathetic it is to crawl back to an ex-boyfriend who’s hurt me in such a vicious way…

So I close the phone, drop it back into my messenger bag, and enter the house instead. I’m just going to repeat the pattern I’ve stitched on this quilt. Lay on my bed, take a white pill, and give my brain a moment to rest before I need to prepare a story for my parents. 

And I guess I must be so consumed with everything else, I completely forget my mother exists. I walk into the living room to head to the stairs when we lock eyes. She’s sitting on the couch with books and papers thrown about the coffee table. Still dressed in the outfit she wore to her meeting with the school; her hair now tied back into a bun. Her big gray orbs hidden behind glasses I didn’t realize she needed and her mouth drops when she scans my disheveled form standing at the foot of the stairs. 

“What-”

She begins, but I head upstairs, ignoring the flustered tone in her voice. But she follows. 

“Cloud,” she shouts after me, “Cloud turn around! What happened?”

“Nothing,” I snap, ignoring her request, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine!” She grabs a hold of my arm to stop my ascent, but I jerk the limb away from her long, manicured, fingers as if her touch was harmful. I look back, to recognize the hurt that flashes across her face. And I resent this vision of a mother. More than the one that had been a fixture on the couch, passed out and half dead. Now she looks all over my face. Following the cuts and brewing bruises as if she can connect the dots. “Cloud, did you get into another fight?” Exasperated. And I clench my fist when the weak tone hits my ears. 

“I’m _fine_ , how many times do I have to fucking say that!” I bark and continue for my room. But she’s on my heels. And every step she takes, causes my blood to boil and erupt. And I’m biting my tongue so hard, it might come clean off, as she pleads for me to talk to her. To tell her what happened, why am I getting into fights? Who is on the other end of those fists? 

“Cloud please. Please talk to me.” I hate the shatter glass of her voice. And I hate when I look at her, there’s tears in her eyes. And I hate everything about this situation. 

“Oh my god!” I boom, “Fuck off!”

Eyes like the broken dinner plates she’s slung at my father in vicious fights. Her voice robbed long enough to give me plenty of time to unleash every ounce of anger I’ve held back like a caged animal. 

“You don’t get to peace out for sixteen, fucking, years and then decide you are going to be a fucking mother this week! I’ve seen this dance before. You leave to get your shit together, act like you're Carol Freaking Brady for two months, and then it’s right back to the bottle. Where have you _been?_ Do you even know _anything_ about me? Do you know who I hang out with and what I do on the weekends? Do you know what my grades are and have you ever been sober enough to meet my teachers? Fuck!” The volume of my voice cracks and allows my eyes to betray me further.

And it’s like an explosion. My words shrapnel that fly through the air. She stands there in the crossfire; shaking. Her lips tremble. 

“Cloud, I’m so sorry-”

“Your sorry means absolutely nothing to me.”

I storm into my room and slam the door in her face before she has a chance to counter- or say she’s sorry for the three-hundredth time. I tear the destroyed uniform off my body- and my brain is a highway of phrases and words from better people slamming into each other like a 90 car pile up. And I can’t focus on anything. Because I can’t get my lungs to take in any more stale air. My hands shake-

Curl into a fist and slam them both against my head.

 _Fuck Cloud_! 

I want to scream to _get my fucking shit together_. 

Breathe. 

But I hear my mother’s soft crying through the cracks in the door 

And all I want to do is scream until my voice dies. 

I tear through my messenger bag, tossing unused books around my room and my hand instinctively curls around the razor-

But I chuck it across the room. Let it slam against the wall like a gunshot. 

Not today. Not today at all. 

I find the baggie with three oval pills. 

And there is a thought: 

_Don’t overdose on my shit._

And I cackle again. The absurdity of it all. 

Fine. I take one, dry. 

Get some clothes on because...and these are the things I think about...I don’t want anyone to find me naked and unconscious. How ridiculous? How just...so sad. 

I lay on the bed and ignore my mother’s murmurs on the phone. 

I lay on the bed with the curtain closed and hope this shit isn’t expired so I can really fall from under myself. 

I lay on the bed and close my eyes and count to ten-

* * *

There’s a misconception I have to address. I don’t want to be this sick; but being sick is all I know. It’s the familiar face in the sea of strangers. I know what to expect; I’ve been down this road before countless times. Getting better sounds like uncharted territory- _the road not taken_ \- and the moment I dared to take that path…

It felt good. I could lie to myself though, like I usually do. Tell myself it’s too hard. And it is. The road sinks like mud. There’s boulders to trip over. Dead branches to duck under. Challenges to overcome that someone with a clear mind would struggle against. What hope could I ever have? I can’t do it alone and everytime I think of asking for help, water fills my lungs and my lips fuse together. Or the words get stuck in my throat. And the only person who ever made me feel comfortable enough to vocalize my needs is partially the cause of this drowning. That’s the problem with placing all your hope into a person. People leave. They hurt. They disappoint. I learned that a long time ago…

_The mistakes you make, you keep on making_.

Vinny told me that after my birthday. And I didn’t listen. 

The sun hangs low behind the curtain, drenching the room in a red glow that matches the cuts on my knuckles. My body vibrates from the drug making its way through my system. My brain slows down- the phrases ricocheting like bullets turn to dust. And my breathing calms to an even pace. My eyes heavy but do not shut; instead they trace the shadows on the walls. This is definitely double my original dose; but the disconnect becomes a welcome relief. And maybe if I stuck with my prescription, and listened to my doctor, I would have better coping skills by now. 

I don’t hear my mom anymore; and I do have guilt about my actions now that rational thinking momentarily takes over. I could have asked for help so many times since she’s gotten back. And she would have sprung at the opportunity. What have I done now? Do my actions cause consequences to befall her? I curl my body into a fetal position as a wave of nausea attacks my senses. And I just want this pain to stop. 

The front door slams. The house rattles in response. And I know before I hear his voice, my father is not pleased with my performance- and that phone call must have been to him. Bile gives way to heat; that breeches my chest before turning to ice and falling like snow. His footsteps echo through the sparse house. And if I had nothing to offer my mother, I have even less prepared for him. He can yell at my unresponsive corpse for all I care. 

He emerges into the room and his rage permeates four walled blue box. He’s spewing hate. His words sound like the foriegn language I have every fifth period. He stomps against the floor as if trying to crack the wood. My face buried in my pillow, but I know he’s throwing his hands in the air, demanding answers to questions I can’t understand. I try to concentrate on the small tingles that tickle my finger tips and the cotton that wraps around my head like some kind of protective barrier. Muffling his words as if I’m under a canopy of blankets. 

“What the fuck is this!?” 

My eyes fly open. 

Fuck. 

“Cloud Asher Strife, what the fuck is this!?” He repeats, and when I turn my head the baggy with the two remaining pills glares over me. “Is this what I think it is?!”

“Sh-shiit.” I manage to stutter through numb lips. 

“Shhhhit is right,” he mocks. 

The garbage in my system must be expired. Or my tolerance increased. Because the panic I thought I leashed explodes like a bomb. There’s a pause between us- he removes the baggy from my face and all I see is his. Disgusted. Enraged. His eyes straight blue. A pure dark blue that I haven’t seen as he moves those two orbs all over me. Taking inventory of every fresh mark on my face. My wrinkled black shirt and ripped jeans. The sweat that beads along my forehead and greasy hair drenched. 

“I knew it.” he finally whispers, “I knew you stole your mother’s medication.”

I swear my soul vacates my body. Like, _you’re on your fucking own with this one_. My mouth is as dry as the blacktop on the basketball court on a hot day. I’m trying to make sense of his accusation, but my muddled mind can’t line up his logic. 

“She tried to defend you, but I knew,” he seethes, “a whole bottle doesn’t just go _missing_.”

_God Damn you, Sephiroth_. Even leaving him beaten and broken on the floor, he’s still finding ways to torture me. He took the whole fucking bottle that night. My mother must not have noticed it immediately with everything going on in her life during that time. Then- I think about her words- the ultimatum she mentioned in the car. I beg my head to clear the fog. She must have noticed the drugs went missing and stopped taking them, or tried getting more. Sending her to spiral because she needs her medication. Fuck. It’s all my fault. My mom’s final fall is all my fault for not standing up to Sephiorth two months earlier. And now my dad stands over me with misguided evidence to my transgressions. It’s like doing a math problem wrong, but still coming up with the right answer.

And how do I explain this?

No, those aren’t mom’s drugs. Those are drugs I just bought because I sold mine already?

My lack of words further fuels my father’s flame. “You need to start talking, immediately. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

I try to stifle the laugh that shoots through my throat; choking back the smile with a sick grin. 

“Is this funny to you?”

I want to scream, _no of course no_ t! But all my mouth can manage is the weakest: “I have no idea what you are talking about.” and that’s only half a lie. He’s speaking in riddles he expects me to solve when I’m high. And I know how pathetic that statement sounds. I know how that makes me look. But when he’s bearing down on me, and throwing all of this shit in my face with broken sentences, I don’t know what anyone expects. 

“So you have no idea what happened to your mother’s medication?” His voice scathing. 

“No.” I respond with a tone as blank as my face. 

I see his cheeks bubble to a scarlet hue. “I’m tired of you lying to me!” He slams the pills against the wood. And goes off. But I’ve already activated that part of my brain that tunes out anything this guy has to fucking say. And I know this whole dance. And It’s one we’ve done for years. I’m tired of hearing him lose his temper. I’m tired of his hypocrisy and that he blames the sixteen year old for the tragedy of his life, marriage, manhood. I didn’t fucking ask to be born. 

I ignore his words. They lack power. I slide off my bed around him. He continues to shout _what are you doing? Do you have anything to say?_ While I jet my hand into my messenger bag and grab the pack of cigarettes and shove them into my pocket. And he’s too enraged at my lack of responses that he doesn’t even register the white pack. I guess we have entered the pick your battles phase of this argument. 

Then he snatches my arm, and his strength jerks me out of the fog for the moment. When I snap my head to him, he growls, “What are you doing?!”

“Leaving.”

“Excuse me, you’re not going anywhere,” he squeezes, “Do you have any idea the shit storm you just created? Your mother had to find a meeting after she talked to you because of how shitty you treated her. Look at you! You’re a mess. And you’re dragging everyone down with you!”

  
I grab his wrist, and with what little force I have not weakened by the drugs, I rip his hand off me and shove him away. He stumbles back, slamming into my desk, and knocking down the mess of old collectables I have collecting dust. Now he’s wide eyed. Full of fury. And do I see even a tiny bit of confusion etched across his aging features? I don’t take the time to analyze the pitiful view in front of me, I charge for my door- note the razor that I flung earlier and take it- and head for the front door. Another journey without a destination. And I squeeze the razor in my hand before hiding it in my other pocket. 

But my dad’s frantic footsteps shake the house as he makes it downstairs as I get my other shoe on. 

“Don’t you dare walk out this house, Cloud Strife,” he yells, “We are talking.”

I cackle, “Because this has been going so fucking well for us huh?”

“You watch your language! You are still a child and you are still under my roof!”

“Wow!” I smack my head dramatically, “you actually fucking noticed!? I’m so proud of you!”

“How da-”

“No no, how dare _you_.” And I feel it coming. And I grip the item in my left pocket so tightly I swear I can feel it marking up my skin. “You haven’t noticed a god damn thing I’ve done in the last sixteen years and _now_ _now_ you want to act like a strict parent? Are you for real right now? You _just realize_ d something is wrong with me? I got punched on Saturday! And when did you notice that? And when you noticed, when did you bring it up? You say you can’t talk to me, but you don’t even fucking try! And when you try you make it worse.”

I’m trembling and my vision narrows. I’m going to pass out or vomit. Maybe both, at the same time, with my luck. But I can’t stop. “You can’t just pick and choose when you want to be a parent. That’s not how this shit works. And you don’t get to throw all the blame on me!”

“I’m not blaming you-”

“You just did!” 

“You have to be held accountable! You have been running this ship for entirely too long. It’s over.”

“ _Things are going to change around here,”_ I throw his words back in his face. “You’ve been singing that song since I was eight! Nothing’s changed. Don’t get tight because I know how to use your lack of parenting skills to my advantage, _father_.”

Now he’s up against me, his finger in my line of vision, “You don’t get to talk to me like that!”

“Do something about it then, asshole!”

Mistake. I forget that my dad stands two inches taller than me. And that he actually goes to the gym. And he’s not in his mid-forties to fifties like some of my other friends’ parents. So I shouldn’t be surprised he has the strength to slam my body against the wall and hold me up with just his hands on my shirt. But I am surprised that he had the balls to put his hands on me. 

The oxygen in the house evaporates. The silence as tense and as suffocating as being buried under stone. I didn’t even acknowledge glass shattering from a family picture by the entrance of the house. Their wedding picture. Technically I’m in there. My mother in her simple white dress and 1980’s hair wisped into big curls. My dad sporting an unfortunate blonde mustache and pink bowtie. His hand on her stomach. She must have been roughly five months along and the bump evident even as she tried to hide it under her modest bouquet of pink and yellow flowers. And there’s radiant happiness piercing through the cloud of fear that hangs in their eyes. There’s hope in that picture. Hope for the family they created when they came together.

Now it lays broken at our feet, as the father has his son pressed against the wall in anger. 

Then as if realizing what he’s done, he releases me and my feet hit the ground. He stares at his hands as if they were compelled by another force. But I don’t give him time to push forth a fake apology. I grab my jacket and take off into the evening. My legs sprinting away from that mansion that sits on the hill and the soulless wraiths that occupy those brick walls. But I have a destination in mind this time. 

The final act.

* * *

The tar that sticks to my lungs devolves my dramatic exit into a coughing fit by the time I hit Link Road. My legs don’t feel connected to my body. And I can’t tell if I am just that out of shape, or if it’s the remnants of the expired xanax still trying to make magic happen in my body. I allow myself a few minutes to take a breath; but I am not far enough from my house and my dad could be already in his car looking for me. 

Maybe. I let the thought take residence in the back of my head. Try to keep out the opposing notion that he’s probably hoping I don’t come home. 

I continue the speed walk.

I need to get away from this place. Go to a location where I can have some peace. I shove my hands into my pockets- one with the razor, one with the cigarettes. And I feel torn up between which I want to use first. The pack is still fresh, unopened. I take a rough inhale to pause the tears that gather in my broken eyes. I feel like the shatter glass in the picture frame. And no desire to even attempt to put myself together. I need quiet. I need my brain to shut off. Just for a minute; or forever. 

_“_ _I just...wanted everything to be quiet for a minute._ _”_

I stop. Recall my words to Reno the night I told him why I tried. And for a minute, I want to call him. My brain is too loud and screaming for relief. And maybe he can help me turn it off for a minute. But-

In the chaos, I left my phone behind. No calling for help. What a strange and familiar place to be in right now. 

...I guess there’s nothing left but continue. To a place where I can make a clear choice. Where I looked at rising lights from a shared tragedy and thought about being reborn a phoenix. Or where I can take my metaphors of drowning in an ocean and make them tangible. 

I make the hour walk. The sun just setting in the distance. The days are getting longer and I do not welcome these extended daylight times. I want the safety of darkness. The lack of souls on the boardwalk becomes my only reprieve; though I capture the shadows of fishermen at the end of the pier. Drinking their cheap beers as the search for sea life riddled with toxicity. Their attention not with me. I blend into the rising darkness with my back clothing. Hood up to hide the blonde hair illuminated by the waning light. Familiar smells enter my nose. The salt from the ocean, the wet seaweed, the stench of trash from under the boardwalk, and death. Rotting corpses of rats and horseshoe crabs that wash ashore and suffocate in the sun. The peaceful sounds of waves hitting filthy sand, taking into blackness of the ocean the heroine needs and empty bottles. A reminder of humanities stain on nature. 

The white noise of moving cars going over the Verrazano Bridge becomes a welcomed comfort. Paired with the harsh honking and sirens from Father Capodanno Boulevard. The sounds of life. The sounds of New York City. A place I both loathe and love. No where else like it in the world. Filled with so many people yet...empty. 

I sit on top of a bench facing the ocean. The glittering lights of Coney Island flicker in the distance like artificial stars. My feet on the seat- and I am sure if some old woman came up she would scold me for the way I’m sitting. But I don’t care. No one seems to notice, the few who are still taking after dinner walks despite the cold air. I take out the pack first. Run my fingers along the plastic. I’m craving one bad. But I know if I open it, I made a decision to keep trying. Sounds so stupid to think about it. So stupid. But anything to keep me alive. I close my eyes when that thought hits me across the head. I’m tired. And I can’t face anyone like this. Not my parents with their accusations, not my friends who need explanations. Not my enemies, who are waiting for the “rest in peace” comments on Myspace. 

I close my eyes and take several breaths. And hope this wave passes as quickly as the real ones several feet away from me. And here I stay. The time ticking away. No technology to connect with anyone. 

Me and my toxic coping mechanisms. 

Slow footsteps break though the muffled noises in my head. It’s amazing how the human mind works. How I know the owner of that stride without even opening my eyes. And my heart starts beating again. Then crashes to a halt when I hear his voice:

“Hey, I found him…” 

I open my eyes and see him approaching me, phone to his ear. 

“Yeah, he’s fine.”

I blink back a few tears. He’s wearing my hoodie under his leather jacket. Black hat covering his red hair. 

“I’ll bring him home.” His lips twitch into a forced smile when he sees me looking at him. “I got him. Don’t worry.” He nods- I’m assuming the person on the other side of this conversation sputters _thank yous_ through sobs- and hangs up. He stands across from me, opposite of the stone chess table in between us, hands shoved in pockets. Eyes tremble with unease. And while my body wants to reach over and hold onto him like a floatation device. My brain spits venom. Reminding me of the last time he stood before me. With tears in his own eyes, as he ruined everything we tried to build. 

“What are you doing here?” I hiss. 

“You’re mom called me.” He states matter-of-factly, as if this is a common occurrence. 

“How does she have your fucking number and why would she bother calling you?”

“Well, first she called Cid- who mentioned ya’ll were in a fight over Tifa- and to call her. Tifa said she hasn’t talked to you in almost a week, and to call Aerith. Then Aerith said to call me and gave your mom my number.” He shrugged. 

“And how did you know I was here?” 

He scans the area briefly. “We came here once. Sat in the parking lot though.” Then he shakes his head bitterly, “And, I called Rude to get Barret’s number. Then called Barret and he said you might be here. Oh- by the way, he’s super butthurt he was last in the phone chain.”

What a mess. I run my hand through my hair and shake my head, too. Barret would know where I’d be. After Aerith and I broke up, he and I took walks on the boardwalk a lot to clear my head when it got too much. Never said anything to each other. Just the company was enough. I can’t believe I forgot that. How convenient. How easy it is to erase the friends that have supported me. And how none of them seem to give away my true issue to my mother. The outing on Myspace. 

Reno continues with a loud sigh, “Everyone’s looking for you, man. Cid’s calling police stations. I heard Tif and Vin are walking around Miller Field. Aerith is trying the hospitals. Your folks are driving up and down the whole island.” He pauses. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. I know this ain’t easy-”

“The fuck do you know!”

He takes a breath and folds his arms over his chest; I watch his mouth as his tongue glides behind his teeth. Armed and ready to unleash his own lecture. Perhaps remind me of his own outing. That he’s been in this sinking ship before- fought this fight. And maybe even lost. But he runs his eyes up and down my form. As if playing the argument in his head. Anticipating my responses; how he sold me out to the executioner. His defenses limited. 

“Okay, you can be pissed at me,” he relents. 

“Thanks for your permission.”

“I’m just glad we’re talkin’.”

I look away. Hate myself for feeling the same; I missed the sound of his voice. And the way his accent drips onto his words like caramel. But seeing him is still unnerving. And doesn’t bring me comfort. “Go away.”

“That’s fair.” and I hate how fucking agreeable he’s being. “But I’m not leaving until someone gets you; so who do you want to pick you up?”

“No one, just fuckin go.” The anger creeps up my throat, stifled by the tumbling sadness. “I just want to be alone.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. Cloud. I have Rude on standby to get Barret if that’s better.”

Great. We have Rude involved in my shit now. “I don’t want Barret. I don’t want _anyone._ I don’t want to go home! So please just fuck off.”

“Nope.”

I glare at him from under my blond hair. Nearly crush the cigarettes in my hand. 

“I know you’re tight,” he continues, “but I told your mom you were comin’ home one way or _another_.” 

Now subtle threats. My eyes drop to the space occupied by my own layered arms. I think about the first time we met. When I crashed into an unstoppable force and an immovable object; and here he stands the same stubborn boy I met six months ago. He’s not going to let me go. And I’m too exhausted to fight him. And fuck the extra level of embarassment I enter. Having my ex try to drag my drugged up body home to face the parents I’ve spewed vile poison at in the name of self-preservation. Or self-destruction. And I can’t remember why I’m even here anymore. And what I really want to happen. I’m still being pulled in different directions and now I recognize the strain this has taken on me. I feel myself tear apart. 

“Cloud,” he speaks as if his words would break me. “Can we talk-”

“No.”

“We need to talk-”

“I _said_ no!” I shout. He rubs his face to try to steady his tone. I know I’m pissing him off because when he drops his hands to his sides, his eyes are narrowed into two perfect slits with just the slightest shimmer of turquoise blue. 

“Okay fine, then I’m going to sit here,” he jumps on top of the stone table in front of me and he gestures towards the other entrance to the boardwalk where a clump of tattered clothes sits huddled against the railing, “And I’ll talk to the fucking crack head over there.” 

“Go away.” I warn him for the last time. But he doesn’t even look at me- instead staring at the blinking red lights on top of the baby blue bridge.

“Last I check, this is America and I can sit wherever the fuck I want.” 

I don’t even know why I bother fighting him. Maybe to hold on to the last shred of dignity I own. I could get up and move, but he’ll just follow me. I could swing at him; but even the thought of inflicting physical pain on him makes me sick. And that’s a line. A line if crossed there’s no coming back from. 

Instead, I pull my eyes from him. And he breathes evenly as he stares into the darkening sky. The waves crash onto the sand like a ticking clock. We sit in silence as the temperature drops and the wind stabs at exposed skin. I taste snow in the air- last remnants of winter also exercising futility. Spring always returns. And I know I’ve been hanging onto hopeless causes; and the idea of new beginnings terrifies me. And that’s why I’ve been so eager to hit the pause button. Or not exist. Having to own up to the shit storm I did cause like a F5 tornado, ripping through everyone with complete disregard. I groan at the realization. 

None of this would have happened if I didn’t get drunk. 

And if I didn’t call Sephiroth.

If I wasn’t so easily manipulated. 

“Why are you here?” I ask him again. “You could have told my parents where to find me.” Why isn’t he angry with me? My stomach feels like there’s an alien trying to tear through my body. I’m all fucked up and I don’t even know what to do anymore. He’s fucking up the plan. Sitting there until I give into his demands. 

He sighs, “Yeah, I could have. But I didn’t think you’d go with them. And, I don’t know, parents sometimes suck at making us feel better. Ya know.” I nod in agreement, still avoiding his gaze. And he continues, “I thought, I guess, maybe since this is my fault, I could fix it?”

I shake my head, “I don’t know…” I want to say, _it’s not all your fault_.

And the way he exhales, like he doesn’t know what else to do anymore, breaks my heart even more than I thought was possible. We sit in strangled silence listening to the crackhead humming Frank Sinatra tunes in the distance. And if I wasn’t poisoned with devastation, I might have cracked a smile at the sheer ridiculousness of this scene. 

“I guess I never really told you about my parents, eh?” Reno starts, and I can hear his opening his own packs of reds and pulling out a cig. “No, I guess I didn’t. Not so good at talkin’, so don’t take it personal or anything. If I was gonna tell anyone, it’d be you.” The lighter ignites with a hiss. He takes a few moments to enjoy the bitters of nicotine. 

“Everytime I thought about telling you, felt stupid bringing it up. Thought it was better...just keepin’ it to myself. Didn’t want you to worry.”

I know his eyes are on me. I feel them through my skin. Words begin a dangerous crawl up my throat; like why does he have to wait till we’re at the brink to tell me anything? Have I been coming off that selfish in the relationship, that _my_ feelings are more important than his? Some of the ice in my chest begins to melt. And I bury those words for the moment. 

“My parents were never the warm and fuzzy type. Pretty sure my dad hated me even before he found out I’m gay. And my mom just doesn’t have a fucking soul.” He rips the cigarette from his mouth with a sharp laugh. “I ain’t even exaggerating. She got nothing behind those eyes.”

Our eyes meet for a fleeting moment. And I see the hesitation take root. His mouth crashes to a frown. But silently, with just a look, I urge him to continue. Because no matter how disappointed I am in how things ended for us, I know he’s been having his own internal battles. And I can’t help but want to offer him a reprieve. All the times he stayed with me as I fell apart in his arms; then meticulously glued me back together without complaint. His turn, I suppose. And maybe there is a bit of selfish curiosity. How bad could it be? Bad enough he had no choice but to give me up?

Reno sighs- dropping his eyes to the floor- and in between painful drags, unloads his story. 

“I never wanted them to find out. I just knew they wouldn’t take it well; things they said in passing. I thought about runnin’ away a lot, but too chicken shit I guess. Not like I had anywhere to go- no one would take me in. So. Just figured I could keep it on D.L. Not like they really paid attention to me anyway. Probably could have gotten away with it, if my exboyfriend wasn’t such a fucking pussy.

“Honestly, my bad,” he snorts, “I should have seen it coming. He’d threatened it, but I didn’t take him seriously. Outing me meant outing himself, and I doubted the kid who couldn’t even say the fucking word could.” Another bitter laugh. “I got cocky. Called his bluff. Well. he.showed.me.

“He went straight to my parents. Kind of a bitch move. I knew when I walked into the house he had done it. He was sittin’ there, on the couch, in between his folks; he couldn’t even look at me. None of them did. They just stood there in silence like mannequins. But I could see my dad’s eyes. And he never had a warm look or nothin’, but he had some Norman Bates eyes. Completely gone. But like he was thinkin’ of all the ways he wanted to hurt me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that look.

“My dad waited until Rod and his parents left.” Reno places the stick in his mouth for another long inhale, blowing the smoke into the night. Delaying the admission. “My dad’s a prick but he never hurt me before; my mom was the spanker. And even when he was comin for me I didn’t think- jokes on me again, I guess.” Long pause. He stares off into the distance, as if reliving the event for a second time. “ _Should have been able to block the first shot_ ,” he whispers to himself. Then he sighs dejectedly, “You know the amount of force it takes to break a human bone? I blacked out after the first snap. Came to in the hospital.” 

He removes his hat to run his slender fingers through his bright red hair. I see the pain in his eyes. How he’s fighting against his instinct to break down. Too proud to show the true extent of his father’s torture. “Not enough therapy for this shit,” he mutters. “Not even at the worst fucking part.”

“Reno.” I choke out his name and it sounds like the saddest E-cord. And I had a question burning at the tip of my tongue- is he telling me this for his benefit or mine- but I lose the urge when he snaps his eyes at me. And seems to relax when our gaze meets, as chips form in my flimsy guard. I want to reach out to him; tell him he doesn’t have to keep going if he doesn’t want to, that I get it now. But if this brings him any comfort, even small, then he should keep going. Give me all of it. He swings his legs around, so his feet rest next to mine. Our thighs touch sending tiny sparks up into my stomach. 

Cautious, I take his hand in mine, running my thumb against his knuckle. 

“I don’t know how to go into the next part,” he admits. 

“You don’t have to unless you want to,” I assure him. 

“It’s the reason I had to give you up,” he whispers, and his voice sharpens like icicles. “They sent me to a place after school. Made me give up anythin’ unique to me. All my hockey shit. All my CDs, and DVDs, and video games. Even books. Made me burn that shit in front of them. Tried to convince me to be ashamed of who I am. That what I am is disgusting. And I should be disgusted.” He curls his lips inward with a small resentful shake of his head. “Well, they fucking _tried_ at least. Once I realized they had no boundaries, I faked it. Yes'd them to death. Whatever they wanted to hear. I gave it to them. Boom- _cured_.”

Another acidic laugh as he squeezes my hand, “Made a promise to myself I wasn’t gonna let them win. But I know, I can’t go through that shit again. I _won’t_. They’ll find a way to break me.”

I should have put the pieces together. The scars on his body and his wariness to approach this relationship in the beginning. The rules he established in an effort to protect himself from further abuse. _Abuse_. I toss the word around my head. I knew it existed- even if never explicitly uttered. And me so focused on my own garbage, I failed to notice his suffering. Had him shoulder the weight of all my problems while his clung to his ankles and dragged him further down. 

“I’m sorry,” I falter “I-”

“I didn’t tell you to make you feel bad,” Reno counters, “You shouldn’t feel bad. You should be pissed at me.” He pauses and I open my mouth to protest his defense of me. But he continues, “And I didn’t tell you so you’d forgive me. I told you because I want you to know the whole story. You deserve at least that. And maybe you’ll realize that _you_ have someplace to go. You have parents who care a whole lot about you even when it seems like it doesn’t. And you have friends who, even if they’re kinda ticked off at you, are worried enough to go searching for you on a school night. And...You got me, even though I fucked up.”

I consider his words. The trail of woes I’ve left in my wake. The people in my life who I desperately tried to push away, to convince myself I have nothing to live for, the same people searching for me all over this fourteen mile island. And Reno risked everything to be with me, even on the days where I felt weighed down by all my nightmares and burdened him with them. Never once gave me a strained look; always there when I needed him. Even now when I never asked. _Fuck_. 

I tremble as a tidal wave of guilt smacks me down. But Reno, as if sensing the turmoil, dares to lean in closer. “Hey,” he calls out, “I know you’re going through shit right now. And I know it’s my fault. Okay? Even if I am, I don’t know, _concerned_ my parents would send me to that place, I should have told you from the beginning what the stakes were. And I can not tell you how much it fucking kills me that I did this. If you did anything to yourself, I don’t know what the fuck I’d do. That’s why I need you to please let me take you home to your parents. They fucking love you, babe. You gotta know how lucky that makes you.”

Before he walked up that wooden ramp, I decided to end it all. I knew the last chain holding me back started to snap. But I can’t. Or I no longer want to? Too many dominoes that would tumble and fall if I do. I think of my mother who has been begging me to reach out to her. Cid, who tried to help me even though I hurt him. Aerith, who I’ve spread harsh rumors about, but the only one who showed up at my house when I didn’t come to school. All these hands reached out to pull me from the cold water, and I’ve been slapping them away. And that’s just not fair. And I know this sensation will expire. And I’ll be back at square one. I need to ride it home, find some more hope along the way. _Make it to the next second_. 

I nod my head; making a choice myself for the first time. “Okay.”

He exhales. Relief. And slips off the table. I take one more look at the black sky mirrored in the darkened ocean. The rising mood casting ripples of light against the calming waves. I think about how exhausting it’s been keeping my head above water and how I thought my only option was to sink. But maybe I see a light in the distance. Maybe land isn’t as far as I thought. 

And I have another hand to hold onto...

I dance my blues to his form. He’s also staring into the open sea, car keys in his hand. Part of his face covered by the hat and mess of hair, but I see the rise and fall of his throat as he swallows away some of the pain etched across the sharp angles of his face. There’s a strong urge to wrap my arms around him. Forgive him for all he did because now I understand. I wish he would have told me. I...I would have given myself up. I hop off the bench and stand next to him. Our fingers brushing up against one another. I know part of me mumbles reminders that his inability to talk things out got us here. And maybe I should resent him for that- but, he’s been through enough. He’s been through it all; more than any of us. I don’t want to hurt him further with my misplaced anger. 

And blaming him is easier than accepting my own role in this mess. And I need to accept accountability. Heh. Maybe my dad isn’t always wrong. I hang my head in shame, at my dirty converses stained with mud, dirt, and even blood from unnecessary fights. The pull to collapse yanks at me again. But I try to shake it off. Focus on one thing at a time. 

“This is the most ratchet beach I’ve ever seen, yo” he grimaces with the gentle shake of his head. 

A sad smile breaks across my face. “Yeah.” I inch closer to him and instinctively, he brings his arm around my waist. We listen to the evening music- clash of cold water, airplanes hum over head, the crack head in the corner now screaming about the end of days. And I know we’ve only touched the surface of the iceberg. And there’s so much uncertainty; and tomorrow being a new day doesn’t bring me much comfort. And I’m plagued with new questions. New fears. My heart begins to race but, like he can feel every spark of nerves, he rests his head on mine and pulls me closer. 

I think we’re both at a crossroads for different reasons. And neither path is easy

Maybe we’re both adrift. _Two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl_. 

And I wonder if there’s a way to save us both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was another chapter where I didn't know where to break it up. This definitely could have been like a 40 page chapter, but I decided to break it up so I have a little something to update later in the week hopefully! As mentioned, I might need to drop back to just Monday updates, because school and work are both going to be starting up again. But I don't want to go back yet haha. I've been enjoying writing all summer. I already had my first panic attack over school (Because of COURSE blackboard isn't working and OF COURSE no one is at the school because of Covid) So off to a good start I'd say. If the chapter seems like a mess of words, I wrote half trying to get through my anxiety. 
> 
> I'm really eager to see what ya'll think about this chapter. I have some of my own thoughts, but I'll hold on to them until I see your comments. Both of them kind of took over for a second so this chapter went into a different direction than I thought it would go. So I'm curious on what a third party thinks. 
> 
> ALSO, just incase I don't post on Friday, I am getting my CLENO tattoo this week!! I'll definitely post a picture on tumblr if you follow me there and I'll more than likely link it to the next update. I am so excited! 
> 
> Oh an as always, BIG THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO IS READING THIS. Much love to all <3


	32. Sweet Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And if you have a minute, why don't we go  
>  Talk about it somewhere only we know?  
> This could be the end of everything  
> So why don't we go  
> Somewhere only we know? ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually think, for once, there are no warnings for this chapter  
>  (if ANYTHING makes you uncomfortable and I missed it, please tell me so I can add it/ and accept my preemptive apology).

We drive home in silence. The songs from the mixtape I made him creates a melancholy soundtrack to the images of Staten Island flying past my window. Monochromatic blurs against growling guitars. And when we pull up in front of my house, he puts the car in park. I don’t move immediately; electing to enjoy the final moments of  _ Somewhere Only We Know  _ by Keane. Savor the sound of Reno’s soft breaths as he consumes his second cigarette. Commit the smell of his cologne back to my memory. 

I don’t want to leave. For so many different reasons. I dare myself to look at him, leaning against his seat with the window open and his cigarette between his lips. His eyes glassy as they remain frozen at the road ahead- shrouded in darkness with only a single flickering street lamp offering light. 

. 

A gentle laugh tickles at the back of my curled lips. One of the movies we watched together during uneasy nights.  _ Live or Die, make your choice _ .

The song ends and I dig my hand into my pocket, pulling out the straight razor. “Hey…”

He turns to look at me and eyes widen when he rests them on the object in my hand. 

“It’s Cid's,” I say mournfully, “I should really give it back to him but...I don’t know--- I just don’t think I should have this right now. Do you mind holding onto it until...I can talk to him?”

Reno doesn’t hesitate and closes his hand around mine, “You got it.” 

I enjoy the moment skin brushes against skin. The tension palpable, I could almost taste it; salty sweet. And I know he has an army of words beating against his frown as he glides his hand from mine, taking the razor with him. Our shared gaze never breaks. I shouldn’t hold on to him as support but  _ I want to stay alive just to see you again _ sings along my torn mind. And I know from wet in his eyes he refuses to unleash, if anything were to happen it would break him. And I don’t want to do that. Not ever. 

“I’m sorry about Saturday,” I apologize. And he’s owed that, for sure. My reckless actions put him at risk. Almost exposed because I couldn’t handle a rejection I manifested in my own mind. The fact he has shouldered all the blame concerns me; and I promise myself, when I fix the broken highways in my head, I’m coming back for him. 

“Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” he swallows hard, “But, maybe you should reconsider some of those toxic coping mechanisms?”

My lips twitch into a regretful smile, “I’m going to get right on that.”

“Good. And, you know, if you ever need help, I got your back.” Then he rolls his eyes and allows a chilling chuckle to break through the air. “I mean, I know I don’t got a good track record right now. But I still care about you…”

I nod, “Yeah. I-I know. And, uh, my offer still stands- if you ever need to run away, just come over. We would take you in without question so...now you have somewhere to go.”

Shock is not a look I’ve seen on Reno. And it’s as subtle as I expected. His mouth slightly drops open. Eyebrows raised. “You mean that?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” 

“...Heh. Will do, then…”

I know our time must come to an end; the desire to run my fingers against his face becomes unbearable and I want to give into hopeless romanticism I didn’t believe in until I met him. But we’re no good to each other like this. And that’s the tragedy of having insight; knowing that I have to pull away from the person I love the most for our own good. 

I break eye contact first; hate every second of it. “Thank you for getting me…”

“Always…” his voice trails off into a shudder. 

So much more we want to say, shelved for another day. And maybe it’s good to hold on to hope. “I’ll...see you at school then.” I reach to open the door-

“Wait!” He exclaims, tossing the cigarette out the window. “Yo, I straight up hate not being able to talk to you. This week has fucking sucked and all I wanted to do is see you. And I  _ know _ you said don’t talk to you again, but, could we maybe...reconsider that?”

My hand still on the handle, I look at him flushed with opposing forces. “I…” I want to say yes. “Don’t know.” But there’s too much at stake. My stomach curves into knots because I’m going against my own selfish desires. 

And his frown is devastating. “What do I have to do?”

“Uh-wha-”

“What do I have to do to get you back?”

I adore the conviction in his tone. The way his eyes burn like twin blue flames. How ridiculous and young and stupid he’s being. And how I want a dose of his naivety. I shake my head scornfully, “It’s not you. It’s the world against us and it’s impossible to hide now that there’s a spotlight on me. You can’t be serious thinking we have a shot?”

“Why not?” He questions, but his tone sounds accusatory. 

I slouch in my seat, staring off into the vacant distance. Sometimes he is so selfish while being selfless. Gripping onto control. I shake my head, “You have a girlfriend.”

“I’ll break up with her,” he scoffs with a distressing whisper, “I don’t even like her…”

“God, you’re such an asshole,” I laugh but note _ to everyone else but me _ . I dare myself to look; he’s rubbing his forehead and a jaw clenched so tight I can imagine his teeth breaking against his frustrations. He hides his eyes. To push back any evidence of tears. Reno cried once in front of me, I mean really cried. When he curled into my arms after he revealed some of his own torn thoughts about his parents. And I had run my hands over the bruises scattered over his skin. The ones he made me promise never to ask about but I deduced the owner behind those scars. And how stupid and seflish could I have been to just forget?

“I’m tired of losing,” he murmurs. 

“You always win,” I argue. 

“Nah,” a bitter smirk upon his face, “I lost everything.”

The next song shifts the tone.  _ Mayonnaise by  _ The Smashing Pumpkins fills the car. I scold myself for putting so many painful reminders on this mix CD. 

“I want to tell you everything...but it’s like…”

He trips over his words and I fill in the blank. “Like your lungs fill up with water and you can’t catch your breath? Or your mouth is filled with sand and hurts your throat?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he grumbles. He turns in his seat to look at me; eyes rushing onto me like a cyclone. “I miss  _ you _ . I miss being with  _ you _ . Even before this all happened. I don’t want to go to these parties with these fuckin’ people. I don’t want to hang out with  _ Rufus Fucking Shinra _ . He’s a little bitch. Everyone here is so fucking fake. I dealt with fake people back in Cookeville. Been there done that. You’re the most real person I’ve met. You know who you are.”

This time when my laugh bounces off the window of the luxury vehicle, it’s genuine. Not flushed with pain from too much sadness. Or deranged from adrenaline. It sputters unattractively like a truck burning rubber down the Staten Island expressway. Reno doesn’t share my amusement. Continues to look at me through hooded eyes with his eyebrows curved in tensed anger. He leans in closer, his tone as strained as a thread about to snap in half. “I’m being serious.”

I don’t think he enjoys being laughed at. But I don’t enjoy his characterization. Know who I am? I’ve been a puppet my entire life, living under the boot of a drugged up loser with a credit card. Know who I am? “I’m depressed and anxious,” I sneer, “That’s all I got.”

“At least you know  _ that _ ,” And I feel another statement meant to come forward. Instead of locking up, I try to kick my way into his thought process. Recall the conversation at the beach; how his parents found out and sent him away, to a place that forced him to take everything...that made him... _ him _ . I lean back, crush my laughter with a snap. 

He didn’t say where they sent him.

But it isn’t like on nights where I felt particularly shameful, did I not research certain therapies?

Meant to cure.

As if we’re something that needs to be eradicated.

“I know I love you,” he continues, “Every part you’ve shown me. The good, the bad, the parts I don’t understand. It’s probably the only thing I know.”

“I love you, too.” And I can’t understand why a sentiment so beautiful feels so tragic. 

And he must feel the same pain laced in those words, because he doesn’t look hopeful at my admission. This is already covered territory. How could we not be in love? But love without logic is a dangerous place to exist. Even worse, when that shared love is viewed as toxic to the sensibilities of terrible people. People who hide behind ancient morality as justification for sinful threats. 

Our carelessness has been fun. And how I have enjoyed kissing him under the warmth of a cooling sun, as the leaves changed and fell, in the backyard of my house. As the windows of his place glare above. Dancing our calloused fingers across our cold cheeks. And whispered predictions of our joined future. The dreams that seemed more lucid than static. And wouldn’t it be nice--

Just so nice--

To set fire to this island just to be together.

“So that’s it, huh?” Reno slumps in his seat, against the driver’s door, with a destroyed smile on his face. 

“As long as you need to stay in the closet, we can’t do this. These were your rules, right?  _ No one can find out  _ I’m gay? They did.” 

He looks away again, curling his lips inward like he’s holding back his fury. “Fucking bullshit,” he laments, coughing back the crack in his voice. “Can’t believe I screwed this up this badly. I’m smarter than this, shit.” 

I can’t deny the truth, that I’ve missed him more than I care to admit. And if the world wasn’t a whirlpool of shit, and if his parents weren’t two vile creatures holding him hostage, I would grip onto him- never let him go. Put all my adolescence hope in him. Believe in happy endings for once. Pave a path there myself, and hold his hand through the rest of our lives. And maybe one day-maybe I’ll live for that day. But right now there’s too many foes to fight off. And sometimes we need to know when to lay down our swords and rest. Rest to battle another day. Why does the right decision feel so foolish?

“I’m sorry,” I mumble and refuse to give him another look unless I want to crumble to his advances. No. I can’t. Right? 

I open the door and exit into the frigid night. The fierce wind kissed by the arctic as it grazes against my wounded face. Momentarily bringing relief to the cuts and bruises that burn as salt water tears spring from my eyes. Because, this just simply sucks. I've been acting like a dumbass this whole week, and now I decide to make coherent decisions. I slow my advancement to my house. The light from the living room spills onto the freshly mowed lawn. And I’m not sure if I’m ready to face the people lurking inside, waiting for me to own up to their allegations. I stop by the first step leading towards the double wooden doors with stained glass windows- the Engel family crest. Blues and Yellows. Sad and sick- and that’s one way to describe the maternal side of the family. 

Maybe it’s time to change the narrative. Faith and Hope. 

I realize, there’s still the soft rumble from the BMW . I turn to see Reno slam the door as he exits the car. We stare at each other. Going through a silent argument about how illogical we’re being. That being young and in love got us into this mess in the first place, because we never once took into consideration the consequences of being so reckless. But, fuck, why does the rest of the school get to act stupid and get away with it? How many fights have lesser couples devolved into at parties? Cheating scandals. Three week love affairs that turn volatile. 

And my heart slams against my ribcage begging me to move. As Reno walks around his car, I am pulled towards him like a magnet. And all I want to do fall into him like a planet hurtling towards the sun.

Because just fuck logic. 

He grabs my waist as I throw my hands against his face like I’ve wanted all night, and there’s not even a breath of a pause before our lips crash together like an explosion. And I don’t even wait to deepen the kiss; and he matches my movements. Our mouths open, tongues meet, and he steals all the oxygen from my lungs. And I welcome the breathless desperation. The harsh taste of reds. Like the color that bursts through my chest. Warm like Christmas morning. 

I forgot how he makes me feel like I’m on drugs. 

Head in the clouds, refusing to come down. 

I count all the seconds I’m alive in his embrace; and how I enjoy every single one.

Arms still locked around me, he pulls away just an inch to run his eyes over my features. “It’s appropriate to say thank you when someone drives you home, asshole.”

I grin with a slight chuckle. “Thanks for the ride, jackass.”

He unhooks one arm to glides his fingers along the side of my face, where the fresh bruises from my altercation with Sephiroth throb; but he’s not looking at the splatter of purples and reds. Instead he curves his mouth upward. “I love it when you smile.”

And this time he doesn’t wait for a snarky answer and returns his lips on mine; and they vibrate with all his desires. And I have to pull away this time because I’m too overwhelmed with grey; like the color of fog and ash. The stifling hold of the unknown. We hold on to each other, knowing, despite our futile fight against the fact, this could be the last time for a long time. He runs his nails up my spine like he’s done when I’m in my darkest places. 

“We can make this work,” he whispers against my ear, “I can fix everything.”

“Reno,” I plead, yet unable to stop the smile when his name touches my lips. “There’s too much going on.” I push myself back so I can look into his eyes. Like two sad dying stars. 

He clicks his tongue as his patience starts to thin.“I can figure it out,” he argues. 

“This isn’t a math problem you can solve. And this ain’t  _ Romeo and Juliet; _ I’m not going to let you die for this relationship.”

He grunts with an eye-roll. “Fuck  _ Romeo and Juliet _ . That’s straight people garbage.”

And while I wished there was a better comparison. But I can’t help the disruptive worry that starts to weasel it’s way into front of my mind. That if his parents find out about us, and threaten to send him back to that horrible place, he might do something to himself. I close my eyes tight to shed the image from my thoughts. 

“Eleven months,” I find myself saying. “You said you can leave in eleven months?”

“Yes,” he enunciates the single syllable word, letting the  _ s _ slide through his teeth with emphasis. “I promise.”

I open my eyes, clench my teeth to stop this next wave of grief from showing on my face. But it’s for nothing. He shakes his head as if anticipating my next words. “Then...we’ll revisit this in eleven months.”

“No, it doesn't have to be like that.”

“Reno, I need you to let me go.” And I mean that most literally and figuratively. And his inhale is sharp like a sword like he’s preparing for the fight. “I’m not strong enough to do it. So I need you to be the one.” 

He grips my hoodie, shaking his head. “Don’t-.”

“Dammit, Re…” I bite the inside of my lip, take a breath, and give it one final try. “I love you, more than I care about myself. I really do. But you gotta trust me this is for the best right now.” I trap him in my gaze; and he bubbles with frustration. He’s never lost an argument with me before- never met a problem he couldn’t solve. He could probably even win this one. So close to giving up my resolve. But I need him to let me win. One time. Even if it hurts. “Please, baby, let me go.”

Three beats of our heart. And he drops his arms to his side, takes two steps back- my hands sliding down his chest. He runs his tongue over his lips, giving me one more look as if waiting for me to change my mind. Then turns away with a distressing shake of his head. Screaming  **“fuck”** into the empty suburban street; and it echoes over the entire fourteen miles. I start back for my house, my whole body trembling- and I can’t look at him get in the car and speed away with the screech of his tires adding insult to injury. 

None of this is fair. 

When I burst through the door, the tears I resent start. And I know my parents are waiting for me, but I can’t even think about looking at them. Like earlier today, I try to disappear up the stairs. And like earlier today, I run into my mother instead-

And she emerges from the living room. Almost stumbling over her feet. 

Her storm clouds for eyes wide like the center of a tornado. 

I’m pretty sure she said my name, but I hear nothing but wind between my ears. We stare at each other like two deers in headlights. Panic again. I know my hands are shaking. I feel the sweat wet my hair. And I read her face like she reads mine; rewatch the scene she bore witness two in the blackness of her eyes. And I gasp when the realization slams into me like a train. 

“Oh,” she relaxes first, and a small daring smile crawls along features. “Oh it’s okay, honey.” 

I don’t know what it is about her voice at the moment, but she disarms me. I let her approach and I try to find the thread of judgement laced within her smooth features. She climbs onto the first step so she can meet my eyes, all while whispering that everything is going to be okay. Everything. She takes her nails, and I finally notice the pink acrylic, and runs them over my battered cheeks stained with tears so our eyes meet. And I can see her say without words:  _ I know, honey, I know. And I still love you _ . And I try to catch the rumble of a sob that cracks along my chest. She pulls me into a hug, I bury my face into her shoulder, and hold onto her as tight as I could. The tears freely falling onto her pale blue shirt. 

She continues to rub my back, and plants tiny accepting kisses on my head. And I feel like I’m five again. As she continues to offer supportive words I still don’t deserve. “Oh my little storm Cloud,” she whispers; bringing back an old nickname she hasn’t uttered in years. And I squeeze her tighter like she’s going to leave me again. “My boy. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize it sooner. Shh...It’s going to be okay.”

I want to tell her everything but I can’t form the words as the syllables gather in the back of my throat. I just let her speak. Calm my quivering body. And this is the first time I’ve let myself cry without a mental lecture about my gender and how we are supposed to suppress our tears until we explode into violent fury. I give myself permission to break down. And it feels like coming up for air after I’ve held my breath underwater for too long. 

The sound of my father’s heavy footsteps nearly sends me up the stairs, but my mother holds on to me. 

“Wha-” he stutters, but my mother hushes him. 

“Go away,” she whispers, waving him off.

“Bu-”

“Just go wait for me in the kitchen.”

A small laugh pushes past my tears, because these two morons think they’re whispering. He begrudgingly walks back and I know he’s mumbling curses, but I am too relaxed in my mother’s embrace to really care right now. We remain like this, two frozen statues, for a few minutes until my sobs become more manageable and I can feel my mouth again. She pulls back to get a good look at me. Her only son. Faded bruises. Fresh cuts. Red from crying. And I feel both pathetic for displaying such raw emotion and maybe twenty-five percent better letting some of the pent up sadness run down my cheeks and disappear into the wood on the floor. She takes her hand and wipes away what remains, her smile never falters. 

“Okay?” She asks. And I shrug, because that’s the most honest answer I can give, “Okay. Go upstairs, clean yourself up, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Right? Get some sleep, honey. You need it.”

There’s no edge. No silent threat lurking behind the softness in her voice. I acknowledge with a strained nod. She gets on her tippy toes and plants a kiss on the top of my head. Giving me one more warm look before gently pushing me to go upstairs. 

All the ice that rooted in my chest melts like Winter giving way to Spring.

And maybe it’s time to stop being afraid of the changing seasons. 

* * *

I follow my mom’s advice to a point. I go to my room, feeling guilty when I see she cleaned up the books and papers I had laid scattered on the floor before my meltdown. And I know it was her, because I could just see her pacing around, filled with anxiety over not knowing what happened to her son, and needing to occupy herself with a task. Because that’s something I would do--if drowning myself in toxic substances wasn’t an option. I shake away that feeling, though. No time to dwell on past mistakes. I showered away the sweat and blood that made my skin feel like slime. And once I put on clothes that didn’t smell like all my tragedies, I felt slightly more human. 

I want to lay down and give my muscles a rest. Let my brain shut off for the moment before I start my apology tour tomorrow. But curiosity gets the better of me. I creep down the stairs, as the kettle in the kitchen screamed, and take a seat where I could just make out the conversation between my parents. Shock, that for once, I have to strain my ears to hear them; the echoing slurred yells a thing of the past. 

“I should cancel my trip,” my dad starts. “Doug will understand-”

“Bass, you can’t. Your flight is at eight a.m tomorrow.” He grumbles as a response, but she continues, “It’s going to be okay. Cloud and I are due for some mother-son bonding.”

“I don’t know, Claudia. There’s too much going on now. We haven’t even discussed the whole stealing drugs-”

“We don’t know that was him, okay?” she interrupts, and it is painful hearing the doubt creep into her tone, “and even if it was him, you can’t just rush in guns blazing like that. We have to find common ground with him.”

“He needs consequences for his behavior.”

“And we need to know  _ why _ he’s engaging in the behavior….We can’t give him a punishment if we don’t know the whole story. If he’s stealing prescriptions, is it because he’s taking them? Is he selling them?” She pondered, “The problem isn’t that he is stealing them in the first place-”

“I mean, that’s a problem-”

“  _ it’s why he’s doing it _ .” I can hear the eye roll from where I am sitting. “Is it the money? We give him money every week. Is it the attention?” A longer pause. “We haven't really been there for him, you know?”

A regretful, “I know.” Fell from my father’s lips and a new feeling captures me; remorse? “You think he’s acting out to get our attention?”

I roll my eyes- fuck no. 

But my stomach pulls as if arguing with me. 

“I don’t know. But he’s got it…”

“So...do we punish him now?”

My mother and I groan in unison at my dad’s lack of tack. And I slap my hand over my mouth hoping I didn’t give myself away. I don’t think she heard, because she continued. “ _ No _ . Bastian, he has depression and anxiety- at least that’s what the last doctor said. And just because he stopped going to her and stopped taking his medication doesn’t mean it suddenly went away. We dropped the ball here, really bad. We can’t just blame him for everything. He needs help. He needs understanding.”

The silence on my dad’s side is deafening. And I became fearful we were able to backtrack on the small steps of progress we made…

“Okay,” he sighed, “so...what do we do now?”

A loaded question. And one neither of them have the answer to. All I hear from the kitchen were mugs scraping against the wood of the table. And I wonder if there were conversations like this before; nights sitting next to one another trying to solve the puzzle of their only son. And getting stuck at the same part. The frustration they must feel. They don’t want to push me away- and they don’t have the full story. I think of the missing pieces during my own blackouts. How difficult it is to solve a problem when you’re missing the formula. I bite my lip. 

_ The first step is admitting the problem has become unmanageable _ . 

And maybe it’s time to break the code.  _ Snitches get stitches, Cloud _ . 

I nearly lose my resolve. I close my eyes and Reno’s words tumble through my head.

_ Your parents care about you...they love you… _

He’s right, again. And that love may not always come through in the best ways. Maybe I need to help them out- 

I make myself known. 

Emerge into the kitchen with my hands shoved in the pocket of my hoodie. They both jump when their eyes fall on me; as if not expecting me to be wandering around the house. I didn’t exactly have a speech planned. I realize in that moment I never told them anything about what I was going through. Ever. Part of me screeches doubt-but I swallow it, crashing my eyes to the floor. 

“Did you get hit in the face again?” My dad breaks the silence, and when I cautiously look at him, he has a half smile. 

“Wow, only took you four hours to notice,” I smirk, “new record.”

“Improvement…” he brings his arms up in a defense stance, “I think I should teach you how to block?”

I nod with a small laugh, some of the tension in my shoulders slowly evaporating, “You should see the other guy, though.” I can tell from my mother’s strained glare at my father, she doesn't respect his humor. But it helped alleviate the pressure at the center of my chest. I run my tongue along my teeth. Looked between my parents one last time before their perception of me changed forever. Both still in their work clothes. Dad’s eyes already narrowed, mom’s creased with the same concern from earlier. Unwavering. I crash my gaze to the floor. 

“Um, I...just think you guys should know--I didn’t take your xanax, mom,” my voice cracks, “Sephiroth did, to sell it, but I didn’t stop him.” 

I hadn’t realized how much it hurt to say that out loud. And I hoped that once I started it would get easier, but my hands cooked in my pockets as my nerves inflamed. I should have written them a note because all my words sounded weak. I took another deep breath, looking anywhere else but them. “I sold my own stuff a while ago. I felt like I was a freak because I needed to take shit to keep me from...hurting myself...and Seph had connections. It was so  _ stupid _ but people thought I was...cool for a second. Normal, like everyone else-

“And I thought I could be normal…but I haven’t felt normal in months. My head just swims with so many thoughts and I can’t make sense of any of it. Like I go from one thing to another thing to another thing. Until I can’t bear to think anymore. Fuck, I haven’t been happy in forever. And the last time I was-” I swallowed the next sentence. One thing at a time. “I’m sad all the time. Not just a regular sad. It fucking hurts so much and I really want to tell you how all I think about is making it go away forever, but I don’t want you to send me back to the hospital. I don’t want to go away,

“But I'm afraid I’m going to do something again if I don’t get help.” 

The rest of the words died on my lips- there’s nothing more to say. And my mother didn’t waste a moment, leaving her seat to throw her arms around me for the second time tonight- I forgot how much I missed feeling safe. She is holding me up, preventing me from collapsing. I didn’t have any liquid left in me to cry, but I returned the hug. And she made promises in my ear that took residence in my head- promises that I knew she would keep this time.

“We aren’t going to send you away,” she assures me, “we’ll get you help. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to take care of you.”

A relief. That I wouldn’t have to do this alone anymore. 

And before I had the idea of removing myself from her embrace, my dad's arms came around the both of us. Enveloped in a new layer that continued to bury the self-doubt. I don’t remember the last time my dad showed this level of affection. 

Then my mother’s soft crying jarrs my thoughts for the moment as my dad sniffles; drawing back his own tears. 

Their rush of emotion gripped with confusion until... And I squeezed my mom when I realized.

The last time the three of us hugged like this was the evening of July 5th, 2002. 

The day I died. 

And we stand there, in our kitchen, holding onto each other for a while; maybe going through the events from our own perspective. But I acknowledged that maybe we’ve never really moved on from that night. The same song on repeat. And I’m tired of living in the past continuing the same mistakes we keep on making. The rest of the boulders on the small of my back began to crack.

Three years ago, I presented myself with a choice: live or die. And three years ago, alone in my room, I chose the latter.

Tonight...I chose to live. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be attached to the end of the last chapter but I was concerned it was getting too long. Then I was going to put this as the beginning to the NEXT chapter, but felt I was rushing through important parts due to length. So now this gets it's own chapter. Not gonna lie, because I am just emotional all the time, I almost cried while writing this chapters 2x!!! (When Cloud and Reno "break up" and when Cloud hugged his mom.) So I hope it wasn't too sad for you amazing folks!
> 
> ALSO: I DID IT[CLENO TATTOO HERE](https://agrinsosardonic.tumblr.com/post/627736750214791168/15-years-in-the-making-this-tattoo-means-a-lot-to)
> 
> When I first wrote Cherry Soda Boy back in the day, when I was 16, I always wanted to get a tattoo inspired by it. It was the first story I ever wrote that I actually finished and didn't abandon. 15 years later, when I revisited it and decided to keep it as a fanfiction, I was planning on getting something that would express my love for the game, my love for the pairing, and reference even subtle my love for CSB. This has for sure been a whacky summer, a trying summer, for so many people for so many reasons. I had a lot of dark days, but being apart of this small community, writing this story that I love like a child, has kept me going. So thank all of you who have commented and been apart of this story's growth over the last few months. I don't think I could have kept going if not for you. Also, shout out to my husband, again, who paid for the tattoo and continues to support me writing this piece. He's very sad that I am limiting my updates and keeps asking me if I have something ready for you folks. Haha. 
> 
> Some background for this chapter:   
> When I first wrote the Romeo and Juliet reference ALL THE WAY BACK IN CHAPTER 3, I didn't notice the parallels until someone (rompers was that YOU) mentioned it and then I was like "aw shit." I was really just vocalizing my absolute hatred for that play and I'm tight I might have to teach it. Like, how am I supposed to do this? "Straight up, folks, this play is whack I don't know why we still teach it. Go read Macbeth, it's better." But, alas, there does seem to be a common theme of young, dumb, love being torn apart by society. 
> 
> Also, also, and this is a question for you beautiful people:   
> So, I was toying around with including what happened the night of Cloud's attempt, but fuck, I kind of feel like it would just be gratuitous at this point? I don't know. Kind of want to see what you folks think? If it's needed. Like is something missing from the story?  
> Second Question: Is anyone curious about what happened with Zack? I have parts written out but I can't seem to find a good place to put it. So Just seeing if anyone wants maybe an aside with what went down that year in camp. 
> 
> SORRY FOR THIS LONG ASS COMMENT. I write too much (I guess it's an English major thing).


	33. The Number Nine Looks Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I've got another confession to make  
>  I'm your fool  
> Everyone's got their chains to break  
> Holdin' you_
> 
> Best of You- Foo Fighters

I sit on the staircase, in a fresh uniform, as my dad double checks his inventory at the door. He’s dressed in a dark grey suit with the obnoxious German flag tie that I got him for Christmas as a joke. Mom helps him go over the checklist as she fixes the buttons of his shirt and brushes imaginary dust off his jacket. When completed, they gaze into each other’s eyes with dreamy smiles. And I admit, I have to look away because of the sadness that creeps up my spine. Maybe a bit of jealousy. But I push the feeling to the side, there’s so much more pressing matters to deal with today and I need a head clear of the fog. 

Things were going to change.

Mom revealed last night, as they walked me to my room together- like they were both afraid to take their eyes off me- that she already had a short list of potential therapists for me and she was hoping to get me an appointment as soon as possible. When dad gets home for his trip next Thursday, we start therapy as a family. I knew there were more ideas floating around, but they thankfully held back. No need to overload me. 

And I still needed to start my apology tour. My mind already struggling, but maybe a cigarette when I’m out of their line of sight will alleviate the pressure for a minute. 

The taxi’s horn filters into the home. 

My dad waves at the impatient driver from the door, then looks between his wife and son. I see the crease of concern in his eyes through the strained smile on his face. 

“Alright, well, you two sure you’re going to be okay?” He questions with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. 

“We got this, hun,” my mom pats his cheek, “And if anything happens, I’ll call you.”

He leans in to give her a chaste kiss and I gag at the sight. 

Then he approaches me, and I groan hoping he won’t try to give me a typical dad and son punch on the shoulder. “So,” he starts and I offer him a teenager eye roll. 

“So...” I mock with a smirk. 

A tense silence passes between the two of us...

“You know you’re like grounded for the rest of your life, right?”

We both laugh. “Yeah, maybe that’s a good thing.”

“You know, grounding you isn’t as satisfying when you’re being so chill about it,” he shakes his head. 

“Sorry,” I clear my throat, “No don’t. I’m such a good kid. I didn’t even do anything. Wow, you’re so mean.” Full sarcasm. And maybe that’s part of our shared language. 

He ruffles my hair like he used to when I was six and would cry when he had to leave on these trips. He would tell me to be a big boy and protect mom. This time, he avoids burdening me with the man of the house speech, rightfully leaves me in the capable hands of his wife. But whispers he’s proud of me- I frown. I don’t think I’ve done anything worthy of his praise but he follows that up quickly with. “I’ll see you when I get home.” Like he’s locking me into a deal. A promise. 

“Yeah, you will…”

For the first time in ten years, I’m sad that he has to leave. 

My mother waves him off as the white and green taxi drives him to Newark Airport and I can sense the doubt even with her back to me. It’s not that we haven’t been alone together. But she’s sober and I’m probably never allowed to leave the house again except for school. It’s going to be a week of just the two of us. She turns around and forces a big bright smile. Takes in my sight. 

“You’re dressed and ready early,” she cocks her head to the side, “Trying to earn brownie points with dad?”

“Heh,” I shake my head, “I actually was wondering if you could do me a favor?”

She says okay before even hearing the favor- and I try to remind myself to try to use these new powers for good and not evil- and I let her in on the plan. I need her to drop me off at Barret’s place so I can meet him before he heads to the bus to link up with Cid, and then leave so I can talk to them. She's confused, no doubt. And her brows knit as I explain I need to talk to them in private.  _ Boy stuff _ . I suggest. But she continues to look unsure, biting the side of her lip. I know there’s a question burning in the lanes of her mind. She didn’t bring up if she really saw Reno and I in the front. Kissing under stars. Like no one else existed. I’m sure she wants to know about that scene. But I’m not prepared for that conversation. 

She respects my silence. And my need to talk to my guy friends without a mother’s worried ear. 

And when she drops me off in front of his building, she reminds me she’ll be outside of school by 2:30. Non-negotiable. And I don’t bother arguing. 

Barret steps out of his place at 6:25am, way earlier than I usually like to be awake. So I see the shock in his brown eyes through the glass door when he sees me. I’m standing in the fire lane, hands in my pocket, forcing a sly smile across my face. The muted morning sun casting a burnt orange glow against the budding Yoshino trees that line the front lawn of his apartment building. Some birds, feeling the heat of Spring, are already making homes in the foliage. Cooing into the gentle wind. 

He immerses himself into the cool air of the early morning. His face blank at first as he joins me in the street. 

“What brings you to these parts?” He inquires.

“Wondering if I could escort you to the bus stop?” I joke. 

“Heh, I should be escorting  _ you _ .” Folds his arm over his chest first and doesn’t move. I feel slightly judged under his glare. But I swallow the lump in my throat.    
  


“So, I knew we talked a bit after what happened Saturday, but I think I should apologize still…”

He waves me off, “Don’t apologize to  _ me _ . You didn’t get in my face.” 

“Still, I…” I huff, “I think some of my...drinking has gotten outta hand and I’m hurting people around me. So, I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I put you in a position where you felt I didn’t care, or made you choose between your friends, and I’m getting help now.”

His features relax, arching one eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I continue, “I told my parents about Seph taking my mom’s drugs, and me selling shit. Told them, I...really haven’t been doing good. I’ve been on a spiral for a while. I’m not exactly sure when it started...everything was fine and then…” And then what? I stumble. The list neverending. 

But Barret simply finishes my thought: “And then it wasn’t? 

I nod. A little concerned with the simplicity and truth of the statement; how quick my mind turned on me when the situation got moderately uncomfortable. And how deep the problem took root. Like a dandelion. An unassuming weed curled around any part of my brain forming logical thought and choked it out of me. And I didn’t even realize-

“You know,” Barret continues, snapping me from my internal dialog, “the best apology is changed behavior…” He shrugs, “Something my dad would say to me when I fucked up. Not that I fuck up alot- you know- I’m perfect in every way.”

I chuckle, “Yeah. I’m working on the changed behavior part now.”

“Telling your folks is a good start.” Then he drops his hand on my shoulder with a gentle shake, like he did back in October when he first noticed my actions were not becoming of his friend. “Long road ahead, though…” An uncharacteristic smile snaps across his face, “I got your back, Shorty. But you pull another stunt like you did Saturday,  _ I’ll _ punch you in the face. And you won’t recover from that, deadass.”

“Wallace, if I do some dumb shit like that again, you have my permission to break my jaw.”

We shake on the deal. And I feel an odd wave of relief I haven’t experienced in a long time. But I knew Barret would, for this round of apologies, the easiest hurdle.

As we walked towards the bus stop, in a tense silence as I could sense he had more questions to ask, I tried to come up with something to say to Cid. A weak  _ sorry _ didn’t seem like enough. And when we turn the corner, and I spot his outline leaning up against the metal pole with the bus schedule, I almost lose my nerve. I’m going to have to come out to him. And he’s going to second guess everything we’ve ever done together as  _ jokes _ or  _ friends _ . Our relationship forever changed. 

But, there’s no use delaying the inevitable.

When we make it to the stop, Cid lifts his eyes. There’s not many other souls surrounding the S78 bus stop on this side of the street; a few elderly ladies clutch their purses when Barret and I approach-as if the Catholic School uniforms mean nothing to them-and a mother trying desperately to rangle two rowdy toddlers trying to make a break for it. A few New Dorp kids walk past us with their bacon egg and cheese sandwiches from the deli right next to the stop. Cid doesn’t move for a moment, dragging my eyes along my entire form as if processing why I’m in his presence. He stops at my face. A frown and slight flinch of his nose when he sees the new bruises which have turned a blushing red and the cut on my head that’s scabbed over. 

“What’s white privilege doing here?” he looks at Barret.

“Cid, you’re white privilege,” Barret rolls his eyes. “He wants to see how the other half lives.”

“Psh,” he grimaces, looking back to the busy street covered in a hazy morning glow. “You even have a metrocard, guy?”

“Yeah, I’m not that fucking incompetant.” I argue with a bit more edge than I wanted. But Cid’s freaking me out- he’s pissed, but not the usual pissed. When he’s flying in my face, and every other word out of his mouth has one syllable and ends in a hard k. He’s mocking, cold, and curt. I had my chance to talk to him two days ago when he bailed on Gym. Maybe it’s too late. 

“Cid,” I start, easing my tone, “I don’t even know where to begin. I’m so fucking sorry for what happened on Saturday. I don’t remember everything but I remember enough. Most of all, I remember our conversation outside-” I pause and watch him snap his eyes at me, still curved in anger. “And I know...fuckin. I shouldn’t have been upset by what you told me. You were right, I shouldn’t care who Tifa’s with...and I don’t. To an extent.”

I drop my shoulders. Shake my head. Close my eyes. “The rumors are...true. I don’t want to be with her, because I don’t want to be with any  _ girl _ , but I care who she ends up with. I want her to be with someone great. And nice. And would treat her better than even I ever could. And I know that’s you. And I’m sorry if I fucked that up. I’m sorry for swinging at you, I don’t even know why I did that but I shouldn’t have…

“I understand if you can’t be my friend anymore. I don’t deserve anyone’s forgiveness. But I am getting help. And I promise it won’t happen again.”

I take a breath. I don’t think I took an ounce of oxygen into my lungs- afraid if I paused for longer than a beat I would throw up all those words. Words that hang in the air surrounded by the smell of car fumes and garbage. Cid doesn’t make any indication he heard me, taking a few breaths, but eyes remaining on me. I hate being stared at. He knows that. I drop my own worn out blues onto the ground. Try to keep my mind still; instead of allowing it to run through those destroyed highways, creating more chaos. 

He picks himself up off the pole and stands over me. And I miss the days we used to be the same height. Cautiously, I look at him. Eyes the color of a kaleidoscope. He reaches for me and I flich..

But Cid shoves his hand into my messenger bag, feeling around for two seconds before grabbing the still unopened pack of cigarettes I suspected Reno gave me. He shows a hint of shock across his face that the plastic wasn’t torn to pieces. Honestly, this might be a perfect time to quit, but fuck it. He eyes me as if asking permission, and I nod. His actions are slow and deliberate. Littering the plastic onto the street with the rest of the trash. Pulling out a white stick and placing it between his thin lips, then handing the pack back to me. He takes out one of _ my  _ lighters- the New York Giants one- and sparks. I know the bus is making its way down the street, he’s wasting  _ my  _ cigarettes for dramatic effect. 

The old ladies at the stop look unamused when the black smoke rises from his mouth. 

“So,” he starts after two drags, gesturing with the cigarette, “You got like a big gay crush on me or somethin’?”

I blink at the jarring contrast between a few moments ago and now. He stands there with a knowing smirk around my cigarette. Barret mumbles a  _ Jesus Christ _ . My stomach tightens, but only for a second when I notice the small blush along Cid’s cheeks. He’s probably the only person in this world who could get away with that comment; but it told me everything I needed to know. 

“Yup,” I shake my head, “I’m, like, so in love with you.”

“Uh, of course you are,” he throws his arms out, “I mean,  _ look at me _ .”

A heavy laugh from the both of us, though weighed down by the tension around the conversation. Tiptoeing around some of the bigger issues. It’s hard coming back after you swing at your best friend. Not like when I attacked Sephiroth at my birthday; that was warranted and should have ended that friendship. 

“You know, the only issue is your penis,” he points directly to my crotch.

“It’s a pretty big issue, bro.”

“I know! I’ve seen it!”

I notice Barret takes several steps away from the two of us. And I acknowledge we’re being ridiculous. But Cid’s never been sentimental; the only time he shows his serious face is when the anniversary of his father’s death rolls over him like a Mac truck. This? High school drama fueled by alcohol, not even worth the bulk of his anger. And while I can still see the hesitation in his eyes, and the tension in his shoulders when he grabs me and pulls me into a rough hug, I think we might be able to move past this event in our young lives. We have forever to act like assholes to each other. 

He squeezes me, “Oh, if you only had a vagina, Cloud!”

The old ladies stare at us, horrified. I try ripping his arms off me since he’s dangerously close to burning me with my own cigarette. “Cid, fuck off me, bro!”

“Is that a roll of quarters, or you just mad happy to see me?”

I release myself from his embrace; his smile still strained but he swallows away any other words he wants to come at me with. There’s a lot left out. But this is a long road, not something that can be completely repaired after one conversation. I’m exhausted already- feeling like I depleted all my mana with just the first two apologies. I still have the entire day of school. And I still haven’t gotten to Tifa. And when her name enters my head I feel like the ground shakes from underneath. The worst crime committed against her. Stacked up against the priors. The use of her female friends to cover my own insecurities. Using her to...keep rumors from igniting. 

“Yo,” Cid’s voice cracks through the air, “Don’t tell your boyfriend you got a boner huggin’ me. I don’t wanna have to fight him.”

“I won-” I stop myself. 

Cid’s dusting himself off, taking a few more long inhales of toxicity. “I always thought he was kind of a pussy, but when he showed up Saturday, he was ready to fight some people. Fuckin, I ain’t a bitch or anything, but that kid looks like he don’t give a fuck. He’ll straight up murder someone.”

“OH man, I forgot all about that,” Barret adds with a laugh and then looks at me, “When he found out Leslie sold you drugs, he almost snapped his neck- Rude had to yank him off and shove him back in the car.”

My head’s swimming like a cyclone. “What are you guys talking about?”

Then they fill me in- another missing puzzle piece. Apparently Reno showed up about an hour or two after I left, with Aerith, Rude, and Tseng in tow. The aftermath of the fight in the process of being sorted. Vinny, apparently still tight, but allowed everyone to stay behind to cool off- Cid in a fury of confusion and anger. Tifa locked herself in a bathroom refusing to open for anyone but Aerith- the only person who she felt knew exactly what she was going through. When the three boys rolled in everyone got immediately apprehensive. According to Barret, Rude distracted everyone in the horde with questions those in attendance felt he shouldn’t be asking. But Barret, instead, kept his eyes on Reno. Who walked through the crowd of people, in silence, waiting to find the one with the most information-

And when the rumor that Leslie sold drugs to me reached his ears, he snatched the kid by his hair and dragged him to the side of the house. Threw him against the brick, hand clenched around his neck, without a word. And Barret claims he didn’t look like he wanted answers to questions, just wanted to hurt someone or something. To inflict the anger onto someone who meant nothing to him- less than a roach- because he couldn’t unleash his rage on the actual culprit. But no one knew where I went. They suspected I was with Sephiroth, the only other person I would have called, but the silver-haired boy wasn’t answering any phone calls. 

Leslie's crew wasn’t exactly pleased with Reno, and caused another altercation between the New Dorp Crew and the three boys who rolled up in a BMW to a white trash neighborhood.

I’m suddenly hot under my collar. Don’t exactly know from  _ which _ part though. 

That Cid and Barret are causally discussing Reno in the context of my boyfriend.

Or that he tried to straight up kill the guy who sold me percs. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. Though I guess, we haven’t had a chance to go over that night. I shift and try to think of something  _ else _ because my pants are uncomfortable, now. As is the opening in my chest that throbs with all the anxiety I have; sparking like live wires. 

“That’s,” I don’t even know what to say to the two of them, “He’s just a friend.”

They exchange a look. And I know the rumors that circled the school included Reno’s name in the same breath as mine. And they can’t be stupid, and have noticed that almost as quickly as Reno appeared at the school, we came in a pair. I recall a couple of conversations before the shit hit the fan, when Cid asked  _ are you and your bitch ass friend coming through _ ? Like we came in a set. And at those get togethers where maybe we sat a little too close to each other. Found reasons to touch one another in passing. Or we disappeared to smoke a cigarette in the comfort of a darkened backyard. And stood in front of each other with dreamy gazes you can’t really hide through the shine of blue eyes. 

My stomach turns. And if the bus wasn’t one stop away now, I might have lit my own cigarette to alleviate the pressure. Haven’t had a cigarette in over twenty-four hours and I miss the distracting burn against my throat. 

“Yo,” Cid throws a playful punch in my arm, “You good there?”

I blink a few times. His blue-green eyes bared down on me. “Yeah. Uh-” Then with a hint of gloom I can not hide, “Reno’s not my boyfriend….We’re just friends.” I repeat; and hate to admit how much saying that hurt. And I cringe when their eyes meet over my head again. 

“Okay,” Cid nods, still looking at Barret, who shrugs in response. “So...what happened after you left?” He changes the subject and I appreciate them both so much at this moment. “I mean, we all saw the picture Fireman O’Toole posted, but who was the guy?”

“Don’t know,” and that’s the truth, “Didn’t even get a good look at the picture. I made Aerith delete my Myspace. All I know is Sephiroth had something to do with that. He took the picture. He sent it to Ren-” I mutter a _ fuck _ , “I mean, he gave it to Rufus to out me. That’s all I know.”

Cid crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed and dangerous blue. “Oh? That fucking fa-” now he swallows the word with a silent apology, “That fucker did all this shit?”

“Figures,” Barret adds, “He’s such a pussy. I can’t believe you still chill with him.”

“Nah, that shit’s done,” I assure him, “I fucked him up yesterday. Friendship over.”

“Oh word?” Both boys laugh. And despite both of them patting me on the back, showing their support for my retaliation, I still feel conflicted. Twelve years of friendship flushed down the toilet. And I know it was a long time coming. And I know he was never a good friend. And this isn’t the first time he had a hand in my bullying over my sexuality. And I should feel liberated from the monster that pulled my strings and laughed at my pain. But my confirmation name was  _ Jude _ and I always was a fan of holding on to hopeless causes. The war within me still wages on over that- and maybe the last straw would be if he lifted a hand to harm the person I love. My not boyfriend boyfriend. 

The one who showed up in the later hours of the night to look for me after receiving photographic evidence of my infidelity. And who would be willing to maim a person he felt responsible for my downfall. Who put himself at risk just to steal fleeting moments with me. 

My lips twitch. And I hope my friends don’t see. But maybe I’ll hold onto this feeling. I can’t describe it. Like feathers in my body that spread like a hawk.  _ Or a phoenix _ ? Maybe. Been blinded for years by my own shadow thoughts- in the forms of toxic friends. I don’t think I recognized those beacons of light chasing the darkness away. 

The three of us get on the bus, head straight to the back where we can sit together.There’s a few other Saint Sebastian kids on the bus with us, mostly freshmen and sophomores. They acknowledge us in the back and make it a point to avoid sitting close- a warped form of respect. The bus creeps down the congested Hylan Boulevard, the sound of horns from impatient drivers drowned out by the rising conversations. We pass New Dorp High School; and the “rocker” tree where a cluster of black clad teens congregate before, during and after school. And while I can’t make out her form, I know Tifa is huddled somewhere in those mix of bodies. 

I open my phone. The last text she sent me still there.  **How could you do this to me?** A question unanswered.  _ I did it because I’m selfish. Because people were giving me second looks. Because I knew how easy it would be.  _ Fuck. I cringe at my own horrible admission. Tough recognizing you might be a terrible person. But I take a chance; she might not ever forgive me and that’s her right. But I have to try.

**Hey, i no i fucked up but can we talk? Maybe after school?**

I hit send. And just try to hope for the best

* * *

  
  


The school day moved at a steady pace. Boring even. The only graffiti I found on my locker was a drawing from Aerith; and I guess no one was bold enough to deface her artwork. The whispers during class seemed few and far. Some shifted to the strange absence of Sephiroth. And I can’t describe how freeing it felt not being the front page story of the gossip magazine. And I thank the lack of attention span of my classmates. I even got to talk to Reno, in the context of classwork, even though I was distracted by the worn look sewed onto his face. And the painful edge to his voice when he tried explaining the Physics problem to me. And how his eyes looked like glass when he shot me forlorn gazes in my direction. I knew my decision was for the best, but the best made me feel like shit. 

Lunch spent with Aerith because I didn’t think I could handle being alone- or running into him in the bathroom. We discussed her own strained relationship with Tseng, who she has in the dog house due his loyalty to Rufus. And this is probably a shitty sentiment, but it was nice to not focus on the Shakespearean tragedy that is my relationship. Before the end of the period, she promised to talk to Tifa- try to get her to meet me at my house after school since I’m on house arrest. 

I survived the day- only shoved into the lockers once. 

But Tifa hadn’t texted me back. And the elation I felt all day began to drop. I just want everything to go back to normal. My friends back together. And me being anything else except a disappointment. Barret said it would be a long road, but fuck I’m tired. 

My mom doesn’t speak on the ride home- I think she saw my face and read the lines- except musing out loud a new recipe she wants to try. My phone dings. Tifa’s name pops up and my heart crescendos against my chest. Her text simply reads:  **ill meet u at the side entrance.** I exhale. Now, I need to come up with an excuse to disappear from my mom’s line of sight; I swear her side glances during the ride home pierce through my skin. Already hinting her expectations through passive statements with just the pinch of aggression. Such a difference from my father. 

“Are you going to do homework in the kitchen? You know I can help you with History and English.”

“Maybe we should get you a Math tutor, I got a call from Mr. Gast that your grades are slipping.”

“What happened to Reno? Wasn’t he helping you?”

The last statement caused me to clench my teeth so hard I had to pinch my eyes shut. And she must have seen the internal war flash across my face because she staples her mouth shut and ends the conversation having received no answers from my side. Which works to my benefit, because when we walk into the house, and I suggest I want to do my work in the basement, she doesn’t argue with me. And I can’t help but feel a semblance of guilt when her lips fall to a frown and she goes to the kitchen herself to look at the classes she needs to take to finish her degree. And I don’t know if it’s the reluctance to spend time with her- or if there’s a different question beating against her throat- causing the shift in temperature. 

I tell her I’ll come up before dinner. That I’ll supervise since I’m about 90 percent sure she doesn’t know how to use the oven.

“Oh, like you do?” She quips with a wink.

I shrug, “You turn the knob and try not to burn the shit out of the food?”

“Language!” She scolds, “Where did you get this fucking mouth?”

“Uh, you and dad cursed like a couple of truck drivers for my entire life. I don’t know what you expect of me.” I gesture to myself, “I mean, I am a product of you two.”

She waves me off with another more potent grimace, “Don’t remind me. You’re going to need so much therapy.”

“I’m going to need  _ all _ the therapy,” I match her frown. “I’ll be up soon.”

She lets me disappear into the basement with no further argument. And I think about maybe telling her the truth; depending on how much this next conversation steals from me. 

I sneak outside taking a seat on the ledge that leads to the basement staircase. I finally have a moment to myself to smoke a cigarette. And for some reason, maybe because the pack came from a certain lock picking red-head, these menthols taste magical. And I note the irony of finding comfort in toxic substances. And maybe I am the masochist I’ve been accused of.  _ Whatever _ . Better than inflicting scars on my body that give away my story. 

I start planning my statement through the tense drags of my cigarette. My mind stalls. Apologies too weak and overused. How many  _ sorrys _ have I uttered only to continue to hurt her. My best friend. I try to have some hope. Cid seemed to brush the event to the side; ego inflated because he probably suspected I actually had a crush on him. 

The gate creaks open, capturing my full attention. Tifa stands against the afternoon light, dressed like a goth school girl with her chained link skirt, knee high socks, white tank- that probably has her rocker friends salivating- and a black cardigan. Her makeup dark and dramatic, enhancing the red flakes that block her natural rich brown eyes. She looks stunning with the sun blaring down on her, illuminating her raven hair. And I can appreciate her unique beauty even with her face overrun with pained anger.

“You wanted to talk.” She says as a statement rather than a question. Some memories bleed into my thoughts. The first I can remember, a static blur, of a boy screaming in pain as she chomps down on his arm. 

And my most recent memory, flickering like a broken light, her fist charging for my face. 

“Thanks for coming.” My lips flick towards a smile, immediately extinguished when she folds her arms over her chest and taps her foot. “I wanted to talk about Saturday. I don’t remember what I did. But I know I hurt you and I am so sorry.”

“How can you apologize if you don’t remember?” She cocks her head to the side. 

“I heard…” But she rolls her eyes, “I know I brought you somewhere to talk. I know I may have...made some suggestions.”

The huff from her side silences me. The wind scraping against the brick with a soft hum becomes the only noise. Her face unyielding; crossed between disgust and pity. And I am gripped with fear for the next words out of her mouth. The possibilities of what actions I committed when in the privacy of a friend’s bedroom. 

“You brought me into Vin’s room.” She starts, standing as straight as a statue of Athena. “You told me you loved me. You said you were tired of seeing me with other guys and wanted to be with me. Then you kissed me.” Another pause. Another broken memory. 

My first kiss, on her thirteenth birthday. No one showed up- the “the friends” she had made bailed last minute. She buried her face in my chest and cried silently while  _ Scream _ played in the background. I told her I’d do anything to make her happy. A promise I know I’ve failed to keep in recent years. But back then, she pulled away, her eyes falling into mine, and she pressed our lips together with tentative restraint. 

This time, I’m met with black. I try to remember how I may have glided my hands over her cheeks, and pulled her towards me with intent. How she may have relaxed when our mouths met. How she would have welled with anticipation. With finality. That this was happening. My words were true.

And present, she crashes her eyebrows into anger. Her mouth steady with a frown as she, herself, recalls that night. “We probably would have had sex if Cid didn’t interrupt.” Her words drenched in venom that I wince when they hit my ears. A hope turned to despair.

“Oh…” I drag my eyes from her form. Words fail me. And I know she’s staring right at me waiting for  _ something _ . Sorry’s redundant at this point. I rub the back of my neck to alleviate the shooting pain from carrying all my fucking bullshit. It's the worst that I can not remember. So much worse. 

“You didn’t mean it, did you?” She whispers. The slightest ping of longing in her tone is tragic. Holding on to slim optimism- that maybe the picture was the lie. The rumors false. And maybe she’s just as bad as me; gripping on to hopeless causes until her fingers break. Maybe I need to be the one to cut the rope. I nod my head to her question. The first true thing I ever said. Her breath hitches. “All of that was a lie then? You don’t love me. You don’t want to be with me?”

“Tifa, I care about you-”

“Don’t lie. Don’t sugarcoat. Just tell me. Be honest with me for once.”

“No. I don’t love you. Not in that way.” The vocalization singes my throat along with the dying cigarette that burns my fingers. 

“Is it because...you’re gay?”

The absolute devastation in her voice. Like a lightbulb exploding in her mind. The contrast of the conversation with Cid. The realization that this entire time, the perceived jealousy came from unresolved emotions I had for him. Not her. And that this whole time, she’d been holding herself back from perusing the boys she wanted for nothing. Nothing.

I nod sadly, this time looking at her. “Yeah…”

Her eyes rush with tears daring to fall. But confusion streaks her tense features. “So...why? Why did you try to fuck me then?”

I cringe at her vulgarity. Makes me wonder just how far we got before Cid kicked open the door and stumbled onto the scene. And it makes the next words out of my own mouth sound horrible. “There’s been rumors going around the school about me and another guy. I didn’t want people to know-”

“So you...used me? So people would stop talking about you?”

“I-”

“Because you knew I would.” 

And I know what she means by that statement. I exploited her affection towards me. 

And I swallow down the pain like a shot of whiskey that burns my stomach. The simplicity. “Yes.”

“Wow!” She exclaims, slapping her hands together, with dramatic abandon extending the owwwwww into the universe, that I swear the aliens spying on our planet heard her. “You are an unbelievable asshole. And I’m not even  _ allowed _ to be mad at you!” 

I knit my brows, “N-No. You absolutely should…”

Her laugh sharp enough to cut my pleads in half. “I’m already getting the guilt trip from Aerith. She said I should go easy on you because you have all this pressure from school. And I feel I have to walk on eggshells with what I say because I’m afraid you’re going to hurt yourself. I’m so concerned about your feelings that I’m not able to address mine. You hurt me and you embarrassed me in front of all our friends. But I am still putting you above me, as always.”

One more memory pulls my head apart. 

Torn between maintaining a false image and acknowledging my authentic self. With fourteen approaching, my sexuality a sore subject in school. Where a predator with the face of my friend whispered reminders of how easy rumors have spread- as if he wasn’t the ignitor. And how simple it was to turn these rumors on their head when I had a pretty girl sit on my lap, whispering her own suggestions. That I followed. Because it stitched the abusers mouths shut for once. But how disgusting it felt to use her body in such a way. How it reminded me of how I was used and thrown away just a year before, by someone who should have known better.

I should have known better. Been better. 

But I went along with it then because I  _ could _ .

And I repeated the process again when under the same pressure.

Because it would be easy. And that should reflect more on me than it does on her. But it doesn’t; not in this society. Branded a whore, a slut. Terms that follow her around to this day. Right now. 

And why are women constantly charged with protecting fragile men?

Why must they be sacrificed to raise us up? 

She will be called out for her actions on Saturday-

And I will be forgiven.

_ Just boys being boys, you know _ .

“I'm so sorry, Tifa.” I plead, rising up from my seated position and attempt to approach her. But she takes two steps back, up against the gate. Like my sudden towering figure offends. “I know what I did was inexcusable.” And yet, I find excuses bleeding on my lips, and I swallow the metal and salt. And without the excuses, what else is there to say? Sorry that my sexuality became a weapon against me, so I used your attraction towards me as a shield. Left you out there to deal with the zombies. No, I didn’t give you a second thought. Because I was too busy spiraling down a toilet filled with shit. It was supposed to be self-destruction. But it was a bomb that ate at everyone around me. Again.  _ The mistakes you make, you’ll keep on making _ . A tortured sigh escapes instead, “I’ll do anything to make it right.”

When Reno said it last night, it sounded sincere. When it falls from my lips, it sounds like another unworthy phrase with no stones to back it up. 

And she shakes her head, further driving home the point. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do. I’m angry...and I have the right to be angry.” Now the tears begin to fall and she needs to pull her red eyes away from me. Giving me time to allow my own wet regret fall down my cheek. “I-I can’t.” She bites her lip, pinching her eyes shut one time before opening them and staring directly at me. Like looking through the scope of a sniper, she shoots: “I don’t accept your apology.” 

And she leaves. Out the gate, which slams shut behind her. 

And my stomach forms into a giant knot threatening to burst when I hear the male voice on the other side trying to comfort her. And I try to ignore how it sounds like a certain someone’s certain cousin. Because I have absolutely, zero, fucking, right, to be upset with anyone right now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My best friend helped me with the Cid and Cloud interaction because I wanted to make sure I was capturing a realistic conversation between two bros after a fight- so shout out to Korny Slappy for the help ha. 
> 
> ALSO, a beautiful human made fanart for Cherry Soda Boy!! [Peak here](https://gotitmemmorized.tumblr.com/image/627986789502730240)
> 
> Thank you gotitmemmorized! I don't know your username on Ao3 if you have one!
> 
> I'm trying to put it as cover art/in the summary of the first chapter but I don't know how to embed images because I suck haha.   
> Thank you everyone for your comments and support!! Let me know what you all think about this chapter!! I love getting feedback. I was a bit uneasy writing because apologies are hard haha. That was exhausting! AND I'm so sorry to everyone who really wanted tifa and Cloud to be friends again. I feel like it's going to take more time for her to forgive him, and rightfully so. but hopefully everyone will move pass this! 
> 
> Thanks readers! :D


	34. Anhedonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This shit right here is for you  
>  All your faces I can see  
> You all think it's about me  
> I'm about to break  
> This is my fate  
> Am I still damned to a life  
> Of misery and hate?  
> You will never know  
> What I've done for you  
> What you all  
> Put me through  
> I do it for you  
> I could have never lived  
> If it wasn't for you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW:  
> Therapy Mention/Scene (Not sure if this can be triggering but just in case, it's the first two line breaks)  
> Suicide Reference  
> Homophobic language  
> Violence 
> 
> \--Next two chapters might be a little heavier. Not so much mentally, but could be potentially triggering.__

I’m a specter.

Traversing the bright blue world like a black cloud amongst the fluffy cumulus.

A blemish. A warning. 

And I’m not sure where this emptiness exists. In my stomach? Welled with dread and pulling me down. 

In my head? With flooded broken highways, splitting my mind in two.

Or my chest? Opened and exposed. The wind howls through frayed nerves like a chilled touch from boney fingers. 

The pins and needles sensation crawl up my useless limbs. Turns into coils that ensnare my throat. Halt my words. That pile against my lips.

And all I can think about- when I have a moment of clarity to slip between my fingers-is:

God

This

Fucking

Sucks.

I’m aware of my insight. I knew that just running around on my Spring 2005 Apology tour would do jack shit for my mental health. Not like depression just magically flies away after saying  _ sorry for being a fuckin asshole _ to my friends. But there was this obnoxious part of me, a little gremlin that slithers in and out of caves in my brain, that suggested this would be the cure. The end all and be all. 

Admitting mistakes is only the first fucking step. 

And it does not help that I am rooted to this couch for the foreseeable future. I thought being grounded-a concept still alien to me as I’ve never had actual consequences for my actions- would alleviate some of the pressure of socializing. Can’t get drunk and make more bad decisions if I can’t leave the house. But being alone with my thoughts is just as damaging. Probably even more toxic than the poison I pour down my throat. 

So, I found myself rushed with relief when my mom informed me a potential therapist had a Saturday morning opening. And she snatched up that time. I thought about my changed demeanor- how years ago I dreaded the continued therapy after my one month stay at Staten Island Psych ward. 

Textbook reluctant participant. 

Fought every step of the way.

Until I exhausted myself and my parents.

_ And we all know how that turned out... _

Now, this didn’t mean I wasn’t plagued with doubt. Even when I sat in the waiting room, entirely too early for my teenage brain to function (so, ten a.m), with my mom next to me I started to falter. Staring at the obnoxious cliche motivational poster over calming blue walls. 

What if this is another repeat?

What if this doctor doesn’t understand. Just another authority figures ready to pump me with pills I may or may not need. 

What if I do need them? 

I slouched in my seat when that thought wrestled it’s way into my mind. And I can’t tell if this fear is baseless- just a wicked part of myself holding onto control. 

Or warranted due to past behaviors?

Or from the trauma?

My mom must have seen my frown because her hand covered mine, jusseling me from my thoughts. She didn’t say anything. A small smile on her face, suggested that maybe those questions didn’t need to be answered in one day. Or I don’t have to come up with them on my own. 

Dr. Rayleigh emerged from her office in her oddly professional pink pants suit, brown hair tied back in a high ponytail, and thick rimmed glasses pressed against her face- looking like she barely graduated with her Master’s degree, let alone a doctorate. I have to wonder if mom picked her because she looked young. 

Some people would crinkle their nose. Young could mean naive or inexperienced. Ignorant. 

She called my name. “Cloud Strife?” And I think young could mean understanding, open. Accepting. 

I swallowed my doubt. Remember my mom’s words. 

_ It only works if you want it to. _

I hope. Because I need it, too. 

* * *

My mother’s solemn gaze followed me around this first weekend without the distraction of friends and boyfriend. Questions beating like drums against her lips.  _ How was therapy? What did you talk about? Why are you so sad? _ But she swallowed them back every time the greys in her eyes met my weary blues. The only vocalization she made-  _ did you like Dr. Rayleigh?- _ which I returned with a pitiful shrug and pinched lips. Not the response she sought out. But I returned with a more definite  _ yes _ and that got her off my back at least for the moment. 

Truth was, it was fine.  _ Fine _ . Maybe a bit unusual? 

Dr. Rayleigh in her bright pink outfit that beat against the beige walls. Overpowering the cliche motel art that lined the modest office. Her blank smile rehearsed and neutral. Her tones and inflictions subtle. A wiped slate. An empty modem waiting for downloads. And I clammed up. Imagining a tiny gremlin taking a needle and thread stitching up my lips to the tune of a ticking clock from somewhere in the room. While we scanned each other. The only movement from our eyes as I dragged them over her face- waiting for the lines in her skin to give her away. 

I waited for the cliche.  _ How are you feeling today? _

But it never came. 

After five seconds, instead, she asked if I wanted to color. Stating coloring can help in stressful situations. 

And the comment gave me pause, that I forgot to offer a snarky remark in return- instead opting that it couldn’t hurt. Maybe I wouldn’t have to talk.

I leaned against the couch, with a coloring book full of flowers on the end table. And I filled their petals with blacks and greys because that’s how I felt. And wonder what a black flower would want out of its life. Paused when I thought about what Reno would say if he saw me doing this-  _ you would color flowers black, goth bitch _ . And my lips had flicked upwards unwillingly. 

Snapping those stitches

I thought about that moment throughout the weekend. The way his voice charged through my brain like a bullet and I lost all function. How his imaginary words ricochet off my skull. And somehow...a crack in my guard gave Dr. Rayleigh enough that she could stick her hand through.

_ Why black? _

She asked when she looked over at my creation. And I found myself weighing the other meaning behind that question. And when I looked at her, thin brown eyebrows were arched with curiosity. And that had to be the first actual expression she’d offered.

_ Because...that’s what the world feels like to me _ .

She nodded, accepting the answer.  _ So, let’s start there then _ .  _ What does black mean to you? _

There’s a misconception that black only holds negative connotations. And it’s true that the grim reaper adorns black robes while he ushers souls from bodies. And humans wear black when we bury those bodies. And black holes roam space, absorbing planets, and stars, and entire galaxies. Crushing them into dust. Shooting them back into the abyss. Space, untouched, black. The depths of the ocean, where light can never touch like forbidden fruit. Like the snake that tempted Eve, depicted as liquid black and conniving. Who turned into the Prince of Darkness. Black is a mystery. Black is fear. The unknown. Everything that gives humans pause. 

Black, the color of Zack’s hair. 

Hair I still see when I close my eyes and try not to remember when his strong hands pushed me down against the canoe. Black, the color of the sky overhead as dark clouds blocked out the stars. Black is cold. Like his lips when they brushed against mine. 

Black is the smoke from my cigarette. The tar on my lungs. My self-doubt, my self-destruction. 

But I could also find the beauty in black. 

The protection. The power. The elegance. 

Uncharted territory that maybe I could claim. Maybe black didn’t have to feel so terrible. All the time. 

But I simply told her:  _ Black means everything and nothing all at once. _

And she smirked to say:  _ You speak in riddles to avoid the question _ . 

And I had to laugh. 

The rest of the session devolved into small talk while I colored the stems of my flowers red to make it look like the flames of hell. She let me ask her questions and she answered them with relative honesty that I didn’t feel like this was a therapy session; more like a job interview. I felt more comfortable than I realized at the time and when the forty five minutes came to a jarring close, I frowned. 

She left me with homework. To think about what goals I have for therapy. Do I want to keep seeing the world as black? Or do I want to give it a new meaning? 

And as the rest of the weekend dragged on, left with only my thoughts, I toiled those questions around the murky swamp of my mind. In between chain smoking when I had a minute to sneak outside:

With my guitar and book of happy endings. Staring into the black window of Reno’s room. 

And during dinners and movie trips with my mom.

And while I spoke to my father on the phone. 

My goals. Flashing a light through that blackness. 

I carried that light as the cold chill of Monday morning broke through the curtains and drenched my room in a duey hue. And when my eyes fluttered open, confusion clutched my throat at first when light blinded me for a moment. Sure the curtains were closed when I flopped on my bed the previous evening with a sore throat and bruised finger tips. And my stomach flipped…

I snapped my head to side-

And frown when Reno wasn’t lying next to me with a smirk and the gift of his lips on mine. 

I even reached over to the empty spot on my bed, swearing my hand would touch the softness of his fiery hair. And even when I felt only the still air, a glimmer of hope knocked against my chest. 

And hope feels blue. 

* * *

“One more week,” Cid says, slamming his locker shut; the sound echoes through the vacant hallways. Apparently, even in my absence the weekend found a new set of drama to focus on. “And then Easter Break.”

I shrug, leaning against his neighbors locker, who I think belongs to Reeve. “Now I have a week to be alone with my parents. Bonding and shit.”

“They ain’t gonna keep you grounded,” he snarks, “Once you’re dad’s home and yous are at each other’s throats you’ll be callin’ me.”

My lips drop. I hope that wouldn’t be a case, though the bonding didn’t exactly sound exciting either. “Whatever. Maybe they’ll take pity on me and let me have you and Wallace over.”

“Yeah, I could use a boys weekend.” His acerbic tone peaks my interest. But when I asked about his weekend happenings, all he offered was a scowl and a fuck off. So I crushed the conversation. 

“I’ll see how pathetic I can be this week. I don’t know. I’ll dramatically fling myself on the couch on Friday.”

“You should cry. Really gets that parent guilt working.”

I roll my eyes and force a laugh. “I’ll get right on that, bro.”

“You want me to escort your fine ass to your locker, sir?” 

I cringe inward at the slight flirty tone to his words. And almost as if remembering that those jokes may not fly anymore, he straightens up and shifts in his uniform. Dropping his eyes to the scuffs in his shoes. Maybe in another life, I would have taken his hand and we would frolic down the hallway just to piss in God’s cheerios that morning. Now. Now there’s too many implications. 

“Nah, it’s all good, homie.” I offer him a bro high five instead. Exchange goodbyes And we take our leave in opposite directions. 

The offer was nice. And maybe if people saw Cid Highwind walk me to my locker, they would be less inclined to leave derogatory slurs on the door to trigger his rage. Or take a second to reconsider using their shoulders to check me into the stone asbestos walls. But, I would be fine. The hallway devoid of life as homeroom ticked closer, only the stragglers and underachievers still lurked. I made it to my locker, number 218, with hardly a second look. The only markings were a faded outline to the message written on Friday before the end of school that had Cid and Barret hunting for blood.

I open the door, another pack of cigarettes rests on a math textbook. I wonder if Reno knows he’s simultaneously keeping me alive and quickly taking years off my life. But this is his last line of communication with me, outside dreaded class group work or lab, and far be it from me to spurn such a kind gesture. Another part of him I get to keep in secret. 

With a smile on my face, I shut the locker-

And a ghoul dressed in blue with slicked back blonde hair leans against the locker next to mine as if appearing from a different dimension. 

“Jesus Christ, Rufus,” I flinch with a glare. “The fuck you doing?

“How goes it?” He drawls, playing with a white lighter through his fingers. 

“Spectacular,” I snap with every sarcastic bone in my body, “What the fuck do you want from my life?”

“Mm,” he flicks his eyes- looking at everything else in the hallway besides me. “So, I have been informed by several of my associates that, apparently, my actions against you after discovering your hand in my little sister’s problem, was not parallel to the crime committed against my family.”

I want to punch him in his perfect nose. At both his verbiage and the cavalier delivery of his words. The pretentious fuck must have blew a thesaurus before coming to see me- pathetic scum in his eyes. 

But I resist my initial urge to break every bone that crafts his face; instead translate his garbled sentence. So, people aren’t happy that he outed me? Big surprise. Such shock. “And how did we come to that conclusion?” I deadpanned. 

“Well, I told my sister what I did- thinking she would finally come out of her room and eat- but she uh called me a ‘hypocritical, homophobic, misogynist-’” he pauses to mumble quickly, “don’t know where she got that- sociopath. And that I am just like our father.” He grimaces at this. “Which...is just not accurate at all.” 

His frown seems sincere. For once. And I don’t know much about Rufus Shinra’s family situation, but there seems to be an ongoing trend with the one percenters to be displeased with any comparison to their fathers’. And Reno once hinted in a conversation-that feels like years ago-that Rufus is trapped in the shadow of the men before him that bare his surname. And the expectations that follow him are more like chains that root him to cement than freedom. Maybe all his drug selling, drug abusing, his treatment of women and those beneath him are his versions of rebellion. 

Still a fuck. 

“Wow.” I roll my eyes. Rendered silent by the complete audacity. 

“Yeah- fuckin’- apparently, outing someone is not cool these days?” he offers me a confused glare. 

“Don’t think it was ever ‘cool’ but okay…”

“And did you know if you tell someone to kill themselves and they do it, you can be charged with a class E felony?”

I actually didn’t know that- duly note it in the back of my mind just in case.  **Make sure you put his name in the note** . “Didn’t think you were concerned with the law.”

“Well, I’m not,” he returns with a smirk, “I could definitely beat that charge. I mean, do you know who I am? But it would be extremely damaging to my reputation if one of the two gay kids in the school kills themselves because of me.”

I squint. I might still be sleeping and I am in a hyper realistic lucid dream. “Wow,” I exclaim, “This is uh-Is this supposed to be an apology?”

He pauses, scanning the thesaurus in his brain like a jackass. Before offering a pinch of sarcasm laced with sincerity. “I am acknowledging my actions were not becoming of a future President.”

I allow a throaty laugh to rough up my vocal cords, “So...you’re apologizing...to me?

“I am stating that I acknowledge my negative actions towards you caused some distress.”

“Have you never apologized to anyone before?”

Five.second.pause. And I see the gears turn in his dark blue eyes. Before coming up with a weak, “I apologize to Scarlet all the time…”

“Doesn’t count if the only reason you’re doing it is so she’ll suck your dick.”

“Is there any other reason to apologize to a bitch?”

There’s the misogyny. But I consider all the times he’s called me that exact word. Drag my lips into smirk and cock my head to the side. “Mhm, Are you apologizing so I suck your dick?”

“Fucking gross, Strife!” he recoils. Taking a thankful step back- ridding me of the burden of smelling his pungent cologne. And I take momentary pleasure in seeing the Borough president's son fumble over himself. And I’m not even offended. The feeling is absolutely mutual. He recovers. Standing straight as he prepares to bring this conversation to a close. “Anyway, I took down the post-”

“No, Reeve did, after I threatened to kick his ass.” I remind him. Adding an extra edge to my tone as a further threat. 

A threat he only acknowledges with a shrug. “There. Slate wiped clean.”

“Is it though? Is it?”

Eye roll. “Do you accept or what?”

He reeks of entitlement. 

But I’m intrigued- at his true motive. Why apologize to me? He caused the chaos with a flick of his wrist and gentle command of his velvet voice. No one any wiser. Only the major players in the game are aware of his participation. He could have gone his entire life without uttering another word in my direction. Just a knowing smirk. And even if I did take his disturbing advice, and someone-maybe his red-headed associate- felt so inclined to tell the world of his crime, would he face a single consequence? 

He owns a filthy soul. And I doubt he knows the true meaning of fear- whether it comes from a hand of justice or violence. So what is his play?

I see myself reflected in the blacks of his eyes. My healing wounds upon my face still pulse with reminders. A cracked image. Perhaps the same image his sister’s eyes saw when she approached me from the darkness of the woods, right as the sun started to set casting shadows that hid her young features. And I consider how the pills she mixed with alcohol stole chunks of her memory. I can relate to those internal conflicts that rage after a blackout. There has to be consequences to burning away your brain cells in that manner. Bruises on the inside. Maybe her wounds still bleed. And Rufus thought cutting off the head of the snake that tempted her would heal them. 

But fuck

That

Noise. 

“I acknowledge that you talked in circles for the last five minutes,” I snap. And he narrows his eyes in response. But I continue through clenched teeth. “And if you think this bullshit apology is a redemption arc, then you’re an idiot.”

Rufus’s laugh drowns out the first bell. Bounces against the glass in the window. Eyes remaining open. Like Agent Smith in  _ The Matrix _ , no real emotion attached to his steady leer. “Redemption’s for cowards, Cloud, and pathetic people who don’t know who they are. I said my peace, take it or leave it?”

I consider doing to him what I did to Sephiroth. 

But I spot Palmer starting his walks through the hall to catch delinquents. And I’d rather melt into the couch, watching  _ Dr. Phil after school, _ than copy Ephesians 4:31 until my hand breaks. 

“You know if you ever run for President, I’m not going to vote for you.” My only weak retort; words are futile. A waste. 

“Damn, there goes to the gay vote,” he rolls his eyes, moving around me to head to his homeroom, “Guess I have to go make nice with the blacks now.”

I watch him glide down the hall, hands in pockets, and a smirk no doubt stretched along his smooth features. As smug and aloof as ever; simply thinking that acknowledging his actions were foul would never be enough to earn forgiveness- not just from me. If he’s worried about his sister, then he should take a good look into the mirror and see who is really at fault here. Model behavior from an older sibling- girl never stood a chance. I sigh to myself, shoving my cigarettes in my bag before the dumpy assistant principal could catch me, and wonder if Rufus Shinra isn’t looking for redemption then what are his motives?

And before Palmer’s squeak of a warning hits my ears, I think: 

_ All villains are the heroes of their own story _ .

* * *

My encounter with Rufus, as always, weighs on my mind for the school day. And by sixth period, while I sit on the window sill with a cigarette lit between my lips, I put his motivations up against Sephiroth’s. The simplicity of both rationales. Yet the complex execution. Rufus wanted a means to get me back. Sephiroth, while he said he did it because he could, really wanted to take down Reno. A series of events, triggered by whispers through the halls ignited by the silver-haired baseball star, which culminated into putting myself in a situation to be taken advantage of- and Sephiroth jumped on it like a lion on fresh meat. Rufus took the additional bait. The only difference: Rufus, in a bizarre way, protected Reno. Seph...just sold me out. For his own benefit.

I scrunch my nose. 

Why am I living in a universe where Rufus might not be as bad as my best friend?

_ Former best friend _ . I remind myself with a bitter inhale and sigh into a distressed exhale. I don’t accept Rufus’ pathetic attempt at acknowledging the negative consequences of his behavior. He doesn’t get a free past because my hands aren’t clean. Allegedly selling drugs doesn’t give him, nor anyone else, the right to out me. 

And it’s okay to feel that way. 

But Rufus Shinra is the least of my worries. Frankly, the only positive to my encounter with him at my locker is the affirmation that he may not out Reno. Relief for the moment that the red-head would be safe from that bomb dropping. 

My attention returns to Sephiroth.

He hasn’t been in school since our fight behind the red brick church. When we both reopened healed wounds. And I came out on top, for the first time. But his final words as I disappeared into the mid-afternoon wind:  _ I’m going to hurt him _ . My stomach seized. Sephiroth never lets a deed go unpunished. I punched him in his face when I was eight, and he retaliated the following weekend with a kick down a flight of stairs that resulted in a broken arm. And I’m sure when I attacked him when he pushed himself on my girlfriend, he put the plan in motion to rip the rug out from under me.  _ I made it so easy _ . 

So what’s the consequence of leaving him broken and bleeding on the school grounds? Hurt my boyfriend. 

My chest tightens now. How would he go about doing that? The neighborhood is small. And he knows where Reno lives. 

I should have probably told him to watch him back- though Reno would smirk and make some brash statement just  _ daring _ the universe to come at him. Still. I go to pull out my phone from my pocket- at least he’s at lunch with some of his boys, he can be aware just in-

The door to the bathroom opens with a creak. Deliberate. 

And shuts without the follow of footsteps. Just the sound of the rusted hinges screaming against the tile. 

I freeze in my position. If it were a teacher, I would already be on my way to Palmer. 

The squeak of shoes advancing towards my position like a slow, mocking, clap.

Not heavy though. Not like Sephiroth’s domineering stride that shakes the foundation.

Which means- I lean against the window. Place the menthol in my mouth again and wait for the puppet to appear. 

I see his shoes first- small size 9s. He places slender fingers on the top of the door and yanks it open with all his strength so it hits the wall on the other side with a resounding boom that rattles the glass.

He steps into the frame of the door, head cocked up and with a smile. Trying to give the illusion of being taller. The theatrics humorous. And I think about how his mentor doesn’t need to resort to these shenanigans to instill fear. And if fear is what he’s looking for, all he’s got is a stifled laugh through a lengthy inhale of poisons that cause more damage than he ever could.

“Sup, Strife,” Kadaj purrs and I nearly choke on the smoke in my throat. 

“Kadaj,” I return. 

“How goes it, bro?” arms over his chest, never losing the twinkle in his murky green eyes. And I am already growing bored with this exchange. 

I look out the open window-ignoring his question- but not before I see the lines in his face falter ever so slightly. I know why he’s here. Granted, I thought at least Seph would want the retaliation to come from his own hands, but perhaps I dislocated his arm, or bruised that fractured rib. Knocked him out of commission. Laid up in his bed, doped on oxys until his eyes glaze over- watching the shadows of his ceilings dance. I smile at the image in my head. As I stare out the open window; at the sea of swaying trees that blossom with hints of evergreen. The sky an empty blue as planes hum overhead. The wind touched with heat. 

“So, Sephiroth couldn’t be bothered, eh?” I muse more to myself as I stain the horizon with black smoke. 

“Maybe you’re just not worth his time,” he counters with the force of a child. And I think he might be right. A toy. A piece of plastic he could destroy for his own amusement. What weight did he really place upon me? How much could I matter to a boy with no soul? How much could any of us matter to him?

I nod, “So, what does that say about you then? Your time isn’t as valuable as his? Stuck doing his dirty work like his bitch? Cool stuff.”

The growl in his throat, music to my ears, “Fuck off!”

“Or maybe,” I snap my eyes back to his form. Arms dropped to his side with clenched fists. Eyes narrowed with forced intimidation. “I fucked your boy up so bad he couldn’t come at me if he tried?” I put out my cigarette and flick it out the window, then slide off the sill. I stand as tall as I can and take joy when he grits his teeth- forgot that I’m easily three inches taller than him, now. And I know the power Sephiroth must feel when he glares down at me. 

“Either way,” I continue, “I win.”

The snort-laugh from Kadaj gives me pause. He chuckles with flare for dramatics, clutching his stomach and backing up towards the sinks. Like an invitation. I realize his cronies haven’t made themselves known. No way he would be bold enough to approach me alone. “I’ve kicked your ass drunk before, Kadaj. What do you expect to happen when I’m sober?”

He composes himself with a shake of his head. “Big talk from a guy who’s about to get fucked up.”

I know from his stance his daring me to exit the bathroom stall: sinister look in his eyes, arms relaxed, but ready to swing. The ominous tone of his words as they fall to the floor. Shatter like rocks. This could be a three on one fight. I would have zero shot. I consider closing the door and locking it, crawling underneath the stalls like a roach escaping a boot, until I could taste freedom. But that would only prove I’m a bitch. 

And it’s not fear tied to my stomach like a weight. Anticipation. Curiosity? 

“Maybe you don’t care about yourself,” he nods at me, “Maybe you do have a death wish?” I shrug in response. Like I care about anything he- “What about your boyfriend. Care about him?”

_ I’m going to hurt him. In front of you _ . 

I feel the world give way. The empty void between my chest collapses like a black hole and I have nothing in my stomach to hold me down. I think of all the stories I’ve read, about people like Reno and I who are jumped in this exact location. For no other reason than God created us different. Going against the norms. And while I’m sure a percentage of this scene unfolding stems from my attack on Sephiroth, I can’t help the crushing realization that this might be amusing to three clones. More for them than him. A chance to snuff out a challenge to their masculinity.

Now fear grips me, and no longer that I am stepping into an ambush, but into torture. But I see impatience crease in Kadaj’s eyes as he moves between me and the bathroom door. I take a step, so at least I still have my agency.

The bathroom is devoid of life save for Kadaj and I. And I’m relieved for the moment; but I know this could be fleeting. That any moment Reno could be dragged in here by Loz and Yazoo. I hope to a God I don’t believe in that he left campus with his friends. That he wouldn’t be  _ stupid _ enough to follow them to his demise. But I cringe, because they could say the same damning statement Kadaj slung at me and he would, he fucking would, follow them straight to hell if it meant finding me. 

I wait…

My eyes on the closed door. Silence on the other side.

I wait, with one eye on Kadaj- thinking I should probably just sucker punch him. Get him in a choke hold until they realize their mistake. But something about how he shifts between his feet. Jaw clenched. Tap of his shoe, demonstrating his impatience. He created a scene and it’s falling apart.

Commotion erupts from the hallway. The door rattles and shakes followed by yelps and several rapid

No

No

No

No!

And then Yazoo’s body gets tossed into the bathroom with a scream of pain as he lands on the linonium. 

Reno storms in after him like a hurricane; eyes solely on the trembling boy on the floor. And I barely register his movements, because one second he’s a burning shot of lighting in the center of the bathroom and the next thing I know he’s bent over Yazoo with his knee pressing against the smaller boy's chest. One hand on his throat, the other pulls out Cid’s straight razor and holds it over terrified honey eyes. 

No one moves. I try to split my gaze between Reno and Kadaj; just in case the latter tries to come to his friend’s rescue. But Reno, seems to not even acknowledge the other people in the room. Just him and his victim. The only sound from Yazoo’s strained breaths. I don’t even think I’m breathing…

Reno speaks- his usually smooth voice sounds like gravel on a dirt road- and I don’t recognize him..

“You bitches don’t know who the _ fuck  _ you’re messing with,” he growls. Moving the razor against the boy’s cheek stained with tears as he blubbers pleas for help. “So let me tell you the big mistake y’all just fucking made. You wanna know what happened at my last school? Why I got kicked out?” He leans closer. “Because I stabbed the last fuck who thought it was a good idea to call me a  _ faggot _ t. You trying to get stabbed, too?  _ Bro?  _ Think that’s a good idea, yo?”

The sudden smell of peanuts and asparagus reaches my nose with a recoil. Reno’s eye twitches and he jumps up, looking at the result of his terrifying speech. “Yo, are you pissing your pants, man.” He smirks. 

Yazoo takes Reno’s distraction as a blessing and scrambles against the cold tiles like a floundering fish. He flees from the bathroom, the sharp grumble in his throat to hide the springing of tears. And I struggle to process what happened before me; Reno with my best friend’s weapon threatening to  _ stab  _ another student; and compare what I witnessed with the stories I’ve heard floating just over head, of a boy with so much rage held in the center of his own chest, he wants to tear apart something alive. 

_ Rage _ as hot as the flames at a bonfire that I saw carved in the ice blues of his eyes when he had me pressed against a wall by my neck in September.

And despite the smirk on his face when he points his glare at Kadaj- who stands with his mouth agape at the closing door- all the anger that courses through his blood stream boils over. The silver-haired boy doesn’t notice Reno until the other boy grabs him by the collar and slams his entire body against the wall with a shake. This time, Reno plants his hand over Kadaj’s mouth, pressing his head into the cement that I swear he might actually crush him.

The sheer terror in hazel eyes. Wide and small. All I see are the whites gathering tears. 

Reno taps the razor right next to Kadaj’s ear.

_ One _

_ Two _

_ Three. _

Just to make sure he has engulfed all the attention in the room. 

I acknowledge I haven’t moved an inch since he entered. Watched, hypnotized, by Reno’s display of untempered violence. But I hear my heart beat against my chest like a monster trying to escape. And head swirls like in a tornado. 

There’s a part pulling me to stop him---

His voice detached. But drenched in bitter venom. “Now you listen to me carefully, prick. You threaten my boyfriend again and I’ll slit your fuckin throat. And if you think I don’t have the money, charisma, and charm to beat a murder charge, then by all means, try me mother fucker.” Reno drops his hand from Kadaj’s mouth, “Got it?”

Kadaj doesn’t answer, shoving past the blade wielding boy, and following his friend out. And I watch the door close behind him, taking several breaths as I replay Reno’s words in my head. The one word he said, that could ruin everything. He said it with such disregard that the initial admiration I held gives way to my own burst of vexation. And I look back at him, as he gently closes the switch blade- a mumbled  _ I miss my butterfly knife _ \- and puts the evidence of his threats back in his pocket. And as if he just finished having mindblowing sex, he pulls out his Marlboro Reds and lights one up. 

“Are you-” I start, thinking I’m going to lecture him on the stupid card he just dealt Kadaj. But I blink...when he scans my form with the dwindling contempt giving away to affection. But I...have so many questions. And I manage to push one out before he could confuse me with the shift in his features. “Did you really stab someone?”

He looks away, shame. But shrugs as he exhales, “Psh, I grazed him at best.” I continue to stare at him with a twitching brow waiting for more of an explanation. But he snaps instead, “Yo, stop looking at me like I’m a psycho!”

“I’m not!” I shout back, “You’re not… but fuck, you just called me your  _ boyfriend _ !” 

“Well,” his movements as aloof as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the sill, “ _ ex boyfriend _ didn’t have a nice ring to it.”

If the blues didn’t glimmer with pinched sadness, I might have expected a smirk to follow. But there’s a double meaning to that statement that I can’t ignore. And while I feel just about the same, I can’t believe that after fucking  _ everything _ we’ve put ourselves through the last few months. With trying to dodge rumors. What he fucking did to  _ me _ . Outing me just to save his own fucking skin, he would just so effortlessly let everyone know…

“What if they fucking tell people, Reno,” I bark, “What if they tell-”

“The whole fucking school knows,” he bites back, “Shit! You really thought people stopped talking?” 

I resent his condensing tone. I hate how he can’t look me in the eye as he speaks. I throw my hands in the air with a poisoned laugh that cuts. And he flinches. 

“It’s fine,” he tries to assure me as his adrenaline begins to plummet. He clenches his jaw as he aggressively rips his smoke from between his lips. . 

“ _ It’s fine _ ,” I hiss, getting in his face to force him to look me in the eye and try spinning that shit again. But he continues to gaze out the half opened window with a perturbed look sketched along the lines of his face. 

The air lifts. The tension once as thick as the smoke in his lungs begins to dissipate, as it returns to just the two of us...in our own haven in hell. This sour smelling boys bathroom abandoned by the public; covered in mold and remnants of piss. A place to hide from judgemental eyes. I feel the lock in my chest loosen; though I know fear creeps somewhere up my spine that the consequences to this will be swift. These stolen moments will soon disappear. 

And as if he can hear my thoughts, he brings his eyes to meet mine. Bloodshot and broken. 

“It’s not fine,” I finish, “It’s over…”

A scornful smile slowly appears. “Oh, pretty boy,” he drawls in his accent and my heart lurches forward, “it was over the moment I laid eyes on ya and decided you were worth ruining my life for.” 

“Wow,” I roll my eyes, “The fuck is that line, bro?

But he doesn’t acknowledge my sarcasm. “I wasn’t gonna let them hurt you. Not anymore-”

“I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

He runs his fingers through his hair; gripping the back of his neck as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders and crashes his eyes to the floor with a flick of his cigarette out the window. 

“You’re so fucking short sighted,” I argue softly. I don’t know how how someone so smart, so logical, can be so stupid sometimes. 

And all this time, I thought I was the earthquake in this relationship: unsteady with all my emotions that crack and splinter when underpressure. But he’s the volcano eruption that follows such a disaster. Coursing with hot lava boiling to the surface. Scorching the land. 

An immovable object and unstoppable force. 

A force majeure when we collide. 

And I’m beginning to worry that we are destroying one another.

“Cloud.” His voice stern; like he hears the thoughts in my head and wants me to stop falling into this trap of doubt. And this time when our eyes meet, his features have softened. Inviting. “I love you.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” I counter with a hitch in my tone that he picks up on.

And he snakes his arms around my waist and pulls me against him. And I melt in the warmth of his embrace. A volcano indeed. I can’t help but to hold on to him. Head on his shoulder, taking in his scent. The soap he uses overpowers the stench of Yazoo’s piss. 

He whispers in my ear, “It’s going to be fine.” And I know he doesn’t believe those words as they tumble from his lips. But I want to have hope-

Hope that the silver-haired trio were rendered silent by threats of violence- 

Hope that maybe we can weather this storm we created together- 

That neither one of us would have to do this alone….

And that the world doesn’t have to feel black and

Empty

And full of shadows

All the time.

And I’m about to tell him- I love him, too.

When that horrible, rusted door, announces the entrance of another devil.

And Reno and I pull apart as fast as we could. My heart slams against my chest until it shatters. And my stomach drops all three floors, past the earth's crust, into the core where I feel myself burn with fear. When my eyes rest on Dr. Hojo. 

The reflection of the sun against his glasses hide his beady black orbs. A smile, a knowing smile, twitches along his rat-shaped face. 

And I don’t dare look at Reno, but I hear the way his lungs are robbed of their breath. 

“Well, well, well,” Hojo purrs, “And what do we have here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day late. But I got it done!  
> I have...thoughts about this chapter but I don't know how to articulate them. I wanted something that could show Cloud in a stronger light as he's been having a rough patch for a while. While also showing some of that Reno anger that's been hinted at for awhile. A lot of there actions I was like "God this is so immature" but then I remember they are 16 and 17 and are completely short sighted. 
> 
> Also Rufus is like totally not supposed to be redeemable. Like, he's a jackass. But he showcases the complete idiocy and obliviousness that exists on Staten Island. Or really anywhere in this country. But that's a whole rant for another day. 
> 
> Once again, thank you everyone who has commented. It has slowed down but I get it! But Know that I think about all of you like once a day and hope you are doing well and living your best life in these crazy times. And I love that some of you follow me on Tumblr so I know you're alive. Because literally if someone hasn't commented in 3 weeks, I'm like, omg I hope nothing happened to them and they are okay haha. And I hope I bring you some joy with my constant reblogging of Cloud and Reno gifs, or Cleno head canons I'll like never get to, and the occasional spooky image. Also, if you follow the Cleno play list I created, I added a few new songs some lovely people requested.
> 
> "Apocalypse" by Cigarettes after Sex heavily inspired this chapter, but I didn't put it in the summary because it's not from before 2005.   
> OKay I'll stop talking. Hope you find a way to enjoy this chapter. We are getting closer to the finish line in the marathon!


	35. Chernobyl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The sun is shining out of my hands  
>  It can burn, it can blind you  
> When it breaks out of the fists  
> It lays down hotly on your face  
> It lays down painfully on your chest  
> Balance is lost  
> It lets you go hard to the floor  
> And the world counts loudly to ten_  
> Sonne- Rammstein.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW:  
> Homophobic Language

On a Saturday, during April, in 1986, the number four reactor in the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, for lack of a better word, exploded. Sending radiation into the atmosphere A survivor, Alexander Yuvchenko, described he saw a “beautiful” blue light like a laser beam shoot into “infinity.” The people of Pripyat, drawn out of their homes from the sounds of chaos, stood mesmerized by the hypnotic beam; and blissfully unaware that the snow falling around them was filled with poison. Within five to six hours of exposure, many of the workers at the plant already succumbed to pulsating tumors and tremors. After three days, a painful death. 

I became obsessed with the incident when I was fourteen. Right after my release of the psych ward, borderline friendless of my own volition, I made the mistake of watching  _ Terminator: Judgment Day _ when it was on TNT. The scene where a nuclear bomb wipes out the city, and Sarah Conor’s body bursts into a macabre skeleton, forced me to research how likely a bomb could be dropped in my vicinity. Not because I didn’t have some kind of death wish. But if I was going to die, I didn’t want to go out  _ like that _ . Fuck. I ended up falling into a rabbit hole. Nuclear power plants must have been a link I clicked after clicking several other related links. And I stumbled upon the Chernobyl Incident. 

I stayed up all night until my eyes were bloodshot and hurt from lack of sleep. The aftermath, the scandal, the eerie pictures of a city abandoned in the wake of destruction. And not the kind destruction from a bomb, wiping the slate clean. But the utter vacancy. The buildings rotting away. The wild animals, plagued with disease, reclaiming their space. The aftermath of an invisible enemy. 

My research had me in another tail spin. Completely sure that if I wasn’t going to die from a plane hijacking during a terrorist attack, then a nuclear explosion would be next. And nothing. Nothing. Could stop the inevitable runaway train from crashing. 

Those fears began to alleviate when I was prescribed the xanax. Honestly, it helped. I could read up on disasters with only a minor eruption of pulse pounding fear. Eventually I gave up on seeking disaster porn- like some glutton for pain- and turned my attention to more viable fears. 

Like being outed at this school. 

And I know there’s a selfishness attached to making Chernobyl a metaphor. No one can argue that dying from radiation poisoning and being lied to by your government is worse than anything Reno and I are about to experience. But I find myself returning to the destruction as if it gives me some warped sense of comfort. 

And I duly note that I should probably let Dr. Rayleigh know about this on Saturday. Until then…

Reno and I sit in Principal Heideggar’s office. A graveyard of broken dreams. The deep green walls littered with his former military achievements before he was honorably discharged. His medals. Pictures of him shaking the hands of the last three Presidents of the United States. The American flag hanging proudly behind a deep mahogany desk surrounded by some plaques I don’t bother reading- denoting some of his achievements while he was in the Army. He never made his patriotism a secret, to the point where it bordered on nationalism. And the only thing he loves more than the great United States of America, is using God as a weapon to further his agenda.

I’ve been on this side of the desk- a desk clear of everything except a baseball signed by the 1998 Yankees, a silver desk lamp, and a small globe. Once a year I have graced him with my presence:

Freshman year, when I called Sister Rosa a bitch when she slammed the bible next to my head after I had fallen asleep-again. 

Sophomore year, when I submitted a 5 page rant on  _ Romeo and Juliet _ which turned into an entire critique of the school as a whole. The hypocrisy. The abhorrent staff who turned the other cheek in the face of bullying. And stated the- absolutely true- claim that the entire staff were definitely embezzling money from Church donations to furnish their lavish lifestyle. Detention for a week was negotiated down from expulsion. And when I left Heidegger's office that April 2004, he told me he’d see me soon. 

One year later. 

I’m gnawing on my bottom lip as my thoughts fly through my brain. And nothing seems tangible for me to hold on to. Nothing comforting. 

“Yo, stop that,” Reno snaps from the seat next to mine as his bouncing leg shakes the earth. “You’re gonna chew your lip off, shit.”

My cheeks flush and I curl my lips inward. “Well...stop shaking the entire room.”

He doesn’t answer, so I look at him. His elbow on the arm rest of the green leather chair, propping his head up with his curled fist against his mouth. Eyes narrowed with perpetual hate. Every inhale sharp. Every exhale interminable. I wish I knew how the inside of his head looked. If he’s analyzing the problem, searching for a solution that doesn’t involve the prolonging of this turmoil. And I feel I’ve left him drifting on a raft without a life support. My brain can’t even focus on one event; all of them rushing. Crowding. Pile on to one another until they look like blurred pictures. Giving way to black. 

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers through his knuckles, replaying the lie he told us in the bathroom. “Not like they saw anything.”

I frown. I’m trying to push a counter argument but find myself at a loss. What they saw: two boys, in a bathroom which reeks of smoke, hugging. And maybe if it had been any other two boys- boys with clout and social standing- maybe, at worst Hojo would have busted us for smoking in the boys room. At worst we would get a detention. Copy 1 Corinthians 3:17

_ If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy him. For God’s temple is holy. You are God’s temple. _

I swallow my words. 

Because what they actually saw, two boys with slurs that follow their names like they were given at birth, embracing under a muted afternoon sun as if they’ve practiced this move too many times to count. This isn’t a sin we’ve committed against God’s temple, but we spat in God’s face in his house. 

And reality begins to set in as bile surges in my stomach like a squall. I think of all the times we should have ran away. 

The door flies open and Principal Heideggar swoops in like a hawk about to snatch his prey. B-lining for his desk as words tumble from his mouth. “ _ Mr _ . Strife, not at all surprised to see you here.” He plops, unceremoniously, onto the black leather swivel chair, “ _ Mr.  _ Sinclair, however…” He folds his hands together upon the dark wood. His mammoth size body absorbing the world behind him like a stone wall. His deep green suit, like a memento from his time in the military, clutches his body for dear life. He points his black eyes directly at Reno, who regards him in much the same way he regards anyone with authority; aloof. 

But Heidegger twitches his lips into a smirk, “What a disappointment you turned out to be.”

My heart seizes for Reno. Who clenches his balled up fist and with a rapid blink. 

Our principal looks between the two of us. “So, do you boys want to tell me exactly what happened?”

“What _ exactly _ are we being accused of?” I question tartly.

“I asked you a quest-”

“We can’t respond until we know what we are accused of,” I bite back. I cross my arms over my chest and slouch in my seat to further drive the disrespectful knife into his chest. But he’s done this dance with me before and my stance hasn’t changed. Say nothing until my mom bursts through the door ready to tear out someone's throat- the only time she felt motivated in the past to sober up and pull herself together- and then unleash whatever sarcastic acknowledgements of my actions.

I try not to cringe when I think about the phone call home, however. What they are going to tell her. 

Heidegger pinches his lips and rests his eyes on Reno again. “I have three boys in the other room telling us quite the tale about the two of you. Are you certain you do not want to give me your side of the story before your parents arrive?”

Reno brings his fist to his lap with a jolt. “You called our parents.” 

“Yes, they should be here any minute now. I figured you would want to offer a comment before we have to draw our own conclusions.”

The red-head grits his teeth, “So that’s how shits done here?”

“We have a right to know the nature of the accusations against us before speaking on them, right?” I interject quickly.

Heidegger waves me off with a loud huff of a sigh, dismissing my attempts to dominate the conversation without offering me a second look. “Mr. Strife, last I checked you are not a lawyer and this is not a courtroom,” he barks.

“Yeah, well my dad’s a lawyer and Cloud’s right,” Reno hisses. “How are we supposed to respond if we don’t know what we are responding to?” 

Our principal leans back and the chair wails in protest. He moves his eyes between the two of us with complete apathy. Lips a straight line. I hate how his round face offers nothing to read; no inclination on his opinion on the matter. Not even a mocking amusement at our suffering. Blank. Empty. Eyes. That pierce through my own stone face and I try to hide the emotions that attempt to crawl along my features. 

Fear. But not for myself. For the boy sitting next to me, who struggles to keep his leg from giving himself away. I just have to delay until my mom kicks the door in and springs me from this office, from this hell. But Reno doesn’t get to go home to a parent who will call every single lawyer on the island, trying to find someone to sue a Catholic school for making her son uncomfortable. What does Reno go home to? 

I’ve asked that question during sleepless nights. And now I know the full stakes. Depending on the lies the three puppets spewed and the details Hojo offered when he came upon us, Reno might not make it home at all…

I try to steady my eyes and stare directly at Heidegger. In defiance; the only other option. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, “Mr. Ken, Mr. Yu, and Mr. Lorenzo, informed us that they stumbled upon the two of you engaged in a sexual act-”

“What?!” Reno and I both shout in unison. We jump upright, my hands gripping the arms of the chairs; and I despise the sick smile on Heidegger’s face as he eats our frantic panic. 

“And,” he continues with a smirk, “Mr. Sinclair threatened to kill them if they said anything.”

“Bullshit,” Reno snaps, “They ain’t saying that.”

“That’s a straight up lie!” I add, “and makes absolutely no sense since Hojo found us completely clothed!”

“You wanted to know the accusations so you could respond,” he retorts blankly, “engaging in any public affection in the school is grounds for suspension. Sexual acts and threats?” He looks at me with a plain smile as if he’s been waiting for this moment since I first crossed his path three years ago. “Expulsion.”

My breath becomes ragged. And I recognize I’ve waited for this moment myself. The fuck do I care about getting kicked out of a shit school- whose only glory rests exclusively in athletics, while academics is laughable and arts non-existent. But it’s the principle of the matter. I’ve had faggot, kill yourself, die fag, and any other variation scribbled across my locker in marker for the last week. Not a single acknowledgement. No counselor informed to discuss the attacks against me. No teacher offered a helpful hand, with the exception of Matthews who casually told me to avoid my locker on Friday, and I spotted him cleaning off the slur himself. As if he was sworn to secrecy, and even mentioning the act would result in his own discipline. 

I grip the rest until my knuckles go white. Now, they are willing to bring up the elephant that’s been charging up and down the hallways. And only to use it as a means to rid themselves of the blemish on their school population. 

I start getting my speech ready, maybe even string a fear curses in the noose to hang myself with. If I’m going out, it’ll be in a blaze of glory. But I realize the silence which engulfed the room rattles when Reno falls back into his seat. I can hear the strain of his lungs as he tries to steady his own breathing. I dare to look, and the contours of his face have darkened giving him the look of gloom. Torn through; from the shake in his almost translucent blues. 

“Where’s your proof?” I ask, bringing my eyes back to Heidegger, who narrows his in response; almost confused by the question. “You are bringing forth the accusation against us, thus you have the burden of proof.”

I hear Reno shift in his seat, “He ain’t wrong.”

The principle sits up straight, hands interlocked and rests on the table with a scowl present. “Considering the rumors I’ve been hearing…”

“So, you think rumors equal concrete proof? Is that the stance you really want attached to your administration? That you follow Myspace rumors started by sixteen year olds?”

“You need to watch your mouth-”

“Considering how this school has treated their marginalized population, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you would look for anything to get rid of us.”

“Excuse me?” His voice cut with a dangerous edge, “Marginalized?”

“Yes, LGBT* students are marginalized,” I try to match his tone, take a breath, “and I have seen your treatment of the African American* population who are  _ not _ in sports. They are grossly underrepresented and usually you have found excuse, after excuse, after excuse to suspend or expel them. And let’s not even get started at the lack of Hispanic students. You have made it abundantly clear through your action and inaction that unless you are white, Anglo-Saxon and rich, you do not have a place in this school. I have had slurs and dares to kill myself, a mentally ill student, written all over my locker for a week and you have done  _ nothing.  _ But three students with prestige spin a torrid tale and suddenly you are ready to drop the hammer. How do you think that looks on  _ you _ ?”

“So, you admit, you are,” he scrunches his nose, “gay?”

As if he didn’t hear a fucking word I said. Or he chose the one piece he was waiting for. The admission. But I see how he looks back at Reno and realize I fell into another one of his traps. Using my desire to throw all his mistakes back in his face as a means to get the answers he searches for. Confirmation of a lie. 

But I grit my teeth. “ _ I’m _ gay,” I seeth; hating that this gets to be my coming out story. “He’s not. I hardly know him. We’re lab partners, that’s it.”

Reno exhales.

“Why was he in the bathroom with you then? If you two are practically strangers?” Heideggar counters. 

“Because,” Reno takes my second of silence to jump into the fray, “they were gonna jump him. Three on one. That shit ain’t fair.”

“Also,” I add before Heidegger could bite back, “that shits a hate crime. Wouldn’t it be real unfortunate if that got out? That this school was complacent in the committing of a felony according to New York State penal law; you should be so happy that he broke that shit up.”

“Okay, Mr. Strife, you’ve made your point,” he shoots me down. “But that doesn’t explain why Dr. Hojo reported he discovered you two in an embrace, does it?”

I wonder why this guy has such a hardon for getting one, or both of us, to admit our sexuality to him. And why do two boys hugging have to equal an act of sensual affection? Why does toxic masculinity have to be the norm; that boys should hide their emotions until they burst into a frenzy of violence. Which is just as quickly justified as  _ boys just being boys _ . But one boy offering another a comforting shoulder to rest his head, when the world becomes too much, that’s penalized. Shunned. And in that context, we have no actual reason other than…

“I…” I start, “I wanted a hug?” 

I hear mumble a  _ what the fuck, Strife _ , from Reno. But after running his hands through his hair in frustration, he raises his voice, “Kid was upset, yo! He almost got his ass beat cause he likes dudes. Like, what the hell, is it a crime to hug people now?”

Weak argument. I feel our defenses wavering. The foundation we created to steady our footing cracks. There’s only so many times we can try to diverge this conversation into different territory. Take his accusations, twist them, reveal the true root- his blatant homophobia- and throw in back in his face. But he already came to his own conclusion. And I see it from the glint in his eyes as he recognizes the subtle hitches in our voices, as we try to find something to hold on to. 

And fuck, our parents aren’t even here, yet. And what are they going to tell them? What has already been said? We are doing shit for our defense.

“Fine,” Heidegger brushes us both off this time with a roll of his black eyes, “That doesn’t explain the switchblade they reported seeing in Mr. Sinclair’s possession. Bringing a weapon to school is also grounds for expulsion.” he tilts his head to the side, addressing Reno. “Any snarky response to that one?”

Reno shrugs, “No idea what y’all talkin’ about.”

I jump at the sound of Hedeigger’s fist crashing onto the mahogany desk, with such force his medals and picks shake. But Reno doesn’t flinch. Staring directly at him with two perfect blue marbles for eyes. And I wonder if the sound of flesh meeting solid is all too familiar to him. 

“Enough!” He roars, “I am done with the both of you. I have three students, three  _ respected _ students, who are quite shaken by what they saw-”

I stifle the laugh, but comes out like a quip and he turns his bloodshot eyes to me for a second before returning to Reno.

“What is your father going to say about this, Mr. Sinclair? I can not imagine he’ll be pleased.”

_ No shit _ dances through my head. But we both stitch our lips shut; our defenses stated and unheard. We save our breath for the arrival of our parents. I look over at Reno, who leans in his seat with a face flushed with repressed anger that threatens to boil over. And I push aside my own justified rage towards the situation and embrace the worry for the aftermath of this explosion. 

There has to be a way out of this...there just...has to be something…

This really can’t be the end?

Muffled screams leak into the room. The distorted window with  **Principal Heidegger** mirrored in black font begins to shake. And I know the owner of the coming eruption before her occasionally shrill voice, drenched in a Brooklyn/Island accent, reaches my ears. 

I see her small frame reflected and the wood door flies open. Standing in the artificial light, grey eyes aflamed, dressed in her black peacoat and leather pants-like she’s an assassin about to commit a murder- her thin brown hair loose and whips against her face when she directs all her attention at the man behind the desk.

“Did you fucking assholes just out  _ my son _ ,” she shrieks, still gripping the gold door knob with such force, I’m sure she could break it in her small hands. Her body blocks Palmer, who scrambles to look over or under her arm, distressed and stumbling over his words.

“M-Mrs. Strife,” Heidegger tries to swallow his own stutter, “Please cal-”

“Oh  _ please finish that sentence,” _ she dares, and the other man staples his lips shut instantly. “Now, answer my question. Did.you.out.my.son!?”

He clears his throat, “I’m afraid I’m not aware of what Mr. Palmer told you, but if you could come in we could get this squared awa-”

“Your chipmunk lookin A.P made some bold ass claims, so maybe you two,” she turns to Palmer sticking her index finger in his panicked face, “Need to get on the same fucking page before you run around saying shit about my boy.”

“Mrs. Strife, language  _ please _ ,” Heidegger begs, “Come inside and let’s attempt to be civil.”

“Oh,” she cackles, pointing her glare back at him, “I’ll show you civil.” She stomps to his desk, slamming both palms with more fever than he could ever muster, wrecking the standing items on the desk, and sending his signed baseball to the ground. “You did anything to harm my child mentally, physically, emotionally, I will destroy your entire life- I  _ promise _ . I will literally ruin you. You have no idea who I am in this town,  _ arschloch. _ ”

He remains seated, like a guppy, with his mouth opening and closing as he stares into her eyes. And I barely have time to enjoy the scene, of a mountainous many crumbling under my tiny mother, when I hear a strangled  _ oh shit _ from Reno. And when I look over, his eyes wide, staring at the threshold that separates the office from the waiting area. I follow his gaze and see the man I’ve only heard about passing stories-

“Now, now, Mrs. Strife,” his accent thick like the hot humid sun as he saunters into the room, wearing an expensive black suit and red tie, absorbing all the energy in the room as if he owns the place. He has the face of a ferret, pinched with sinister intentions. His thinning auburn hair slicked back with gel and his eyes hidden behind large glasses pushed against his face. No laugh lines, but his forehead are waves of wrinkles from the permanent scowl. Reno inherited this man’s pronounced jaw and fuller lips; but the rest of his face is small, tight. Like there’s a stick tickling his asshole at all times. He doesn’t look like much stacked up together. Standing almost as tall as me. 

But there’s something about the blank stare he offers my mother as he speaks in her direction. As if the pleasant tone in his voice is detached from the rest of him. “there’s no need to act hysterical. I’m sure this is just,” and he turns his attention to Reno, and he falters ever so slightly and he enunciates every.single.syllable. “A mis-un-der-stand-ding.”

“Oh,” my mother turns to him, hands still planted on Heidegger’s desk, “It finally speaks.” 

“Mr. Sinclair,” Heidegger clears his throat, “so sorry to have to bother you. I know you are quite the busy man.”

“I just want to get this sorted.” He glides to his son and I can’t help but watch. Reno drags his eyes away, looking straight ahead at the American flag, but I notice the twitch in his eye when his father stands behind him. And the flinch in his chest when the other man firmly places both hands on his shoulders, as if planting him in this spot. 

My mother, on the other hand, finally removes herself from the desk and takes her spot next to me. And when her hand finds itself on my arm, it’s warm and welcomed. And comforting. 

“Of course, of course,” our principal adjusts his suit and waves Palmer away. “It seems your two boys have been involved with some unsavory activities that are not becoming of Saint Sebastian’s Academy-” 

My mother and I snort laugh in unison, but the Sinclairs remain stone faced and silent. 

“I don’t find the matter funny, Mrs. Strife.”

“Oh this is anything but funny, John,” my mother spats back, “I didn’t find it amusing, at all, when your minion out there decided it was good form to tell me my son is gay and needs to reconsider his enrollment at this school.”

_ John Heidegger _ , with rare discomfort dancing along his face, closes his eyes tightly with a strained sigh. “That, uhm, was not how he should have approached such a sensitive matter.”

“I didn’t know,” her voice darkens, “if it’s true, I didn’t know. So, he outed my son to me and Mr. Sinclair. Do you understand the severity of this issue?”

“Well it is true,” he gestures erratically towards me, “he admitted as much. “

Now I close my eyes; this can’t be fucking happening. I can’t wrap my head around the words that are falling out of these people’s mouths like waterfalls, and I’m crushed under every one of them. My heart slams and stops in static fashion, gripping my lungs and making oxygen feel more like a luxury. This can’t be fucking happening. I repeat. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this- any of it. I often thought about how I would come out to my mom, and hell I almost felt relief when I figured she saw me outside with Reno last week. And even...even if she did...she was probably waiting for me to  _ tell her _ myself. Because that’s how it should happen. With me sitting both my parents down on the couch. And the words coming from my own voice. Not Palmer. Not Heidegger. Not in a grainy image on a website. And sure as hell not from whispers in a classroom. 

She squeezes my arm and I open my eyes to look at her; and her face crinkles with dismay. Not disappointment, though. Her frown mimics mine. Her eyes filling up with tears she holds back with a rough swallow. And I can almost hear her saying,  _ I’m so sorry this is happening to you, my little boy _ . 

“I hate to agree with Mrs. Strife,” Mr. Sinclair’s voice crashes through the room like a wrecking ball. “But your school's approach has been questionable. Mr. Palmer dared suggested that my son was involved in some,” he chokes on his words with such drama that I have to roll my eyes. “Despicable acts with this gentleman over here and I must say, I take that accusation quite personally.”

“Y-Yes, sir, I assure you-”

“I can’t speak for Mr. Strife here,” he shoots me a look like he fired a bullet and a rush of ice flies up my spine. Half his face hidden by the sun leaking into the room. But I see his Marian blue iris’, so light it blends into the whites of his eyes.  _ Like Norman Bate eyes _ . Devoid of any warmth. He squeezes Reno’s shoulders tightly and I cringe at the way he flinches under his father’s cold touch. “My son is a good Catholic boy and would never engage in such disgusting acts. He knows better than that, right Reno?”

Reno looks dazed. His own electric orbs seem to spark and fade as soon as his name leaves his father’s mouth. 

Another struggled inhale. A pause that envelops the room. 

Just to mumble an unenthusiastic: “Yes, sir.”

I feel his turmoil. The empty space in his own chest; heavy and difficult to carry. And I can’t even reach out, grab his hand, and tell him he’s not alone. 

_ I can’t wait till I get to hold your hand whenever I want _ .

And with each second that ticks past, the phrase dissolves. 

Becomes a broken memory tied to nothing. 

A memory. Fading like hope. 

His father’s lips crawl to a politician's smile. Plastic. But satisfied with his son’s equally fake answer. 

Heidegger nods, “Of course, Mr. Sinclair. I’m sure this is just, as you said, a misunderstanding.”

“So, then why am I standing here if this is such a misunderstanding?” My mother argues, placing her hands on her hips. “Or is it just a misunderstanding with it’s his son and not mine?”

“Mrs. Strife, please, your son has been in my office quite a few times-”

“For bullshit! That’s what he gets dragged in here for! You’ve had it out of my kid since day one, all because some bored housewives couldn’t keep their mouths shut and opinions to themselves. Ain’t that right?” He goes to answer, but her dramatic pause was a show, and she attacks while his mouth remains agape, “You dragged us  _ both _ in here. If this is just some misunderstanding then I guess this was another giant waste of my time, so can I take my kid and leave?”

His breathing becomes dangerous- like a predator about the attack. Eyes like two slits as they move between my mother and I. “There’s still the matter of a switchblade being used to threaten the lives of fellow students. Do either of these boys wish to speak to  _ that _ ?”

My mother folds her arms over her chest and I know she’s considering whether or not it’s possible I would be dumb enough to bring a weapon to school and possibly try to use it on an unsuspecting villain. And, maybe, nine out of ten times, sure, that would be me. And I’m willing to take the blame this time if it means Reno gets to leave this room, go home, and be safe for another day. But  _ he still has it _ . Burning a hole in his pocket. And all Heidegger needs to do, say _ empty them _ . And once that blade hits the wood of his desk, it’ll confirm  _ everything _ ; and even the lies will be hard to argue. 

I shoot a look at Reno; his face blank but his father glares below. 

Oh that’s right. They’ve done  _ this dance  _ before. 

But my mother interjects. “They are both done speaking,” and she looks at Don Sinclair, “Right, Don? They can’t hold them on false accusations.”

“It’s  _ Donald _ , Mrs. Strife,” he responds cooly, tearing his eyes from his son’s form, “and if this was a proper investigation, they could be held for twelve hours. But this isn’t.” He arches an eyebrow, “So, I’m afraid I must agree with you again.”

“Tragic,” she mumbles.

“John,” he continues, forcing the false smile, “this is clearly a squabble between boys. Are we really going to allow it to disrupt their academics? Reno has been excelling in his classes, and in  _ sports _ , am I correct?” 

“Yes, however,” Heidegger sighs, “the other boys’ parents are going to be quite upset if there are no consequences…”

“You have no proof,” Donny-boy argues back, “It’s hearsay. At best. And from what I understand, the accusers aren’t so innocent themselves? Correct me if I’m wrong, weren’t they involved with that car accident that occurred back in January? Over...drugs?” a  _ tsk _ from the click of his tongue. “Sounds more like these boys have their own issues and are trying to drag my son along with them. I feel this should be investigated further, no? Instead of relying on rumors from unreliable sources.”

“We could clear this up quickly, if the boys empty their pockets-”

“You need a warrant.”

Heidegger stumbles, “I, Mr. Sinclair, please-”

“You want to carry this further than it needs to be. However, I refuse to waste anymore of my time on this matter.”

Heidegger springs from his seat with a  _ woosh _ . The chair rolling against the wall and thundering boom that follows snatches all the attention in the room. A massive man, towering over all of us like a skyscraper. Beady black eyes well with frustration. The role he attempted to play to humor the rich folks in the room begins to crack. And I notice even Mr. Sinclair, in all his frost, seems to waver. My mother, however, stares up with a bored expression- as if already listing the numbers she will call once we leave this stuffy green office. 

“This is the problem with this generation,” he chides, his face turning a shade of red almost as bright as Reno’s hair, “no consequences for their actions. Coddled by their parents. You are raising weak men. Weak men who need  _ hugs _ when they're upset,” he spats sarcastically in my direction- and this must be what happens when your daddy never tells you he loves you. Misplaced anger and overcompensation. “This is why the other countries laugh at us- we have lost our American values somewhere and I am tired of watching student after student leave this institution having answered for none of their wrong-doing. Your sons are both accused of engaging in deviant acts on these school grounds, in front of other students and the Lord. And your reactions here are telling.” 

He returns to his seat, slow, deliberate. Pushes himself in. Hands balled into fists that rest upon his desk. His flush cheeks slowly return to their natural hue. “One week suspension, to start.” He moves his eyes to each of us, waiting for an argument that never comes, and exhales into a smirk. “In the meantime, the rest of the admin team and I will discuss Reno and Cloud’s future at Saint Sebastian’s Academy.” 

And with a tone filled with derision, he ends the meeting with, “Have a nice day. We’ll be in touch.”

I wait a beat- for something...my mom or Mr. Sinclair to argue. But what follows is an empty silence that hums against the walls. And my mom gently tapping my arm and whispering to go. The four of us file out of the office, Don slamming the door behind him with such force, I swear I heard glass crack. I don’t make eye contact with anyone in the office- the secretaries, Palmer who peaks his head out from his office, or the three boys who’s lies revealed our hidden truths- keeping my eyes glued to the floor and following the click of my mother’s heels. I feel Reno behind me; but he’s as quiet as an abandoned building falling apart from the inside. 

And I don’t….I don’t know what to do-

We break through the double doors of the school, into the fresh spring air. The courtyard entrance is thankfully empty- still too early for school to come to a close, but I can sense the eyes on me from the many windows that line the brick school. And the day is deceptively stunning. Cloudless blue sky that looks like the Caribbean sea. A sun that burns bright, offering a reprieve to the cool wind that rushes through my hair. Everything smells new as fresh flowers begin to bloom. 

But something in me feels like a rush of dark clouds. My mother and I take a left, while Reno and his father make a right- the two of us stop for a beat of our heart.

Eyes meet. And I take inventory of every angle of his face. His slightly open lips whose taste I’ve missed. His growing hair, as red and vibrant as the roses that grow in my mother’s garden, stands in a flurry of different directions as the breeze dances through the soft strands. His uniform blazer unbutton, tie almost undone, looking like the mess I met the first day of school. 

That first day…

The way he scanned my entire form- at the time thinking it weird the way his eyes glided down the length of my body before snapping back to my face with a smirk. And this time mirrors then, except his face is broken with wavering sadness. As if he’s looking at me, committing me to his memory, as if this is his last chance. 

And every instinct begs me to move,

And I resent the way my feet root to the ground. And it hurts to see him look with the same desperation.

This game was always life and death for him. And it’s over. We lost. 

His father’s voice shouts his name with disgust. And we fall into each other’s longing gaze for one more quick beat. 

_ I’ll come for you _ . I find myself mouthing. 

But he shakes his head with a cruel, devastated, smile. Like he’s already given up. And walks away, hands in pockets, head up as he moves to meet his father.

I’m split in two-

Reckless and Logical-

And I don’t know which path to take because both are unfamiliar and frightening. But I need...I need to do something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the two asterisks:   
> 1\. LGBT was widely used in the early 2000s, but what I understand, the Q was added as late as 2016.   
> 2\. We were taught back then that "African American" was the politically correct term. We know better now. 
> 
> Playing a game with myself that chapters will be how ever long as they are by the Monday they are due. If that makes sense. It helps me get a head start for the next chapter and at least try to keep a schedule. Motivation sucked this week but I did it. We are coming to the end pretty soon, it's been a wild ride.
> 
> Thank you everyone who contributed kudos on this story, and who reacted in any way on tumblr. It helps. :)


	36. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'm tired of being what you want me to be  
>  Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface  
> Don't know what you're expecting of me  
> Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes  
> (Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow)  
> Every step that I take is another mistake to you  
> (Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow_
> 
> Numb- Linkin Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW  
> Child abuse.   
> Toxic Family
> 
> First part of this chapter is heavy, fair warning.

The only music on the ride home was my mother’s one sided arguments at the invisible enemy. Threats to call every single lawyer friend she’s ever crossed paths with in her thirty-eight years of life; including the lawyer that handles the family estate. And I keep thinking this fruitless endeavor means nothing. As a Catholic school, a private institution, they can do, nearly, whatever they want- the only court that matters is the one of public opinion. And the public, of the only red-borough in all of New York City, would swoop to the defense of Saint Sebastian’s Academy; even praise them for keeping the school and Church pure of infection. 

I curl my hands into fists while mom digs through her bag trying to find her elusive cellphone- while driving. 

I don’t care about being expelled.

Or even being made an example of- what not to do, who not to be. I’ve never been the kind of student SSA wanted roaming the halls. The only thing I offered was the check my parents wrote at the beginning of the school year; and six thousand dollars a year bought my right to exist with the rest of the Staten Island elite. But I hated that place the moment I walked through the double doors and my first greeting came from the blank, dead, stare from Jesus hanging on the cross. I’ve begged to be released from that prison- pleas that fell on the deaf ears of my parents who thought they knew what was best. 

I can see my mother lamenting her choices as she punches her bag into the back of the car in frustration and shoots off curses in her native tongue- so fast I can’t even register the filth as it leaves her lips. 

“We’re calling your father when we get-”

“No!” I shout. “Don’t call him.”

My stomach lurches at the thought of getting him involved, right now. She sighs aggressively, and I don’t blame her for wanting to include him, but I can’t even fathom having to explain every, little, detail. I can’t even wrap my head around the fact that I’ve been backed into a corner with no escape. I have to come out to him whether I want to or not. And thought pierces my head like a bullet in my skull- and the headache that forms doubles my vision and sends bile up my throat. 

I puke burning hot liquid the moment the car comes to a stop and I open the door. My mother too engrossed in her rage to even notice- which I’m fine with, because I can do without the extra layer of embarrassment- and she springs from the car to the house. I lean back in my seat, wipe my sick with the back of my sleeve, and stare out the window- at the closed garage door with the dent in the center from one of my mother’s mishaps. And I think how could it be  _ possible _ life was easier when she was drunk, and dad was non-existent, and I was abusing drugs and alcohol to hide the fact I’m gay. 

A toxic laugh boils in my throat. 

I can’t even register everything happening. What terrible, torrential, road did I choose? 

No, I didn’t choose this. It was thrusted upon me with complete disregard. And I have no fucking control any more of the outcomes-

Another thought tries to poke through. And I press both fists to my eyes to rid myself of the pressure migraine splitting my mind in two. Everything’s too fucking loud. And I just need it to be quiet for a minute. I feel like I’ve been dragged under water. The noises from suburbia in the mid afternoon sound muffled- far. Static against my ears. But a cool breeze seeps through the open door, tickles my skin, and offers some oxygen in my lungs. 

I want to be fucking sad about this; crawl into my bedroom, hide under the sheets, close the curtains and wallow until I melt into the fabric. 

But white hot rage crashes like a wave; and I want to break someone or something in my fist. Punch a wall, or picture, have the glass cut my skin. 

And when the undertow rips my stomach to shreds, I feel nothing. Neither sad, nor angry. No other emotion I could put into words. I exist and I know I exist. I have flesh that goosebumps when the wind slaps my face. I have bones that crack when I move because my posture is shit and I slouch in an attempt to hide from  _ everything _ . 

And I realize this new sensation both overwhelms and calms. 

My chest no longer feels loose and frayed, like a million electrical wires trying to find purpose. And my stomach sits as still as a statue. But I’m waiting for that next crash of a wave. But the water just keeps receding further and further into the horizon. And it’s only a matter of time before it rushes back with all the force of tsunami-

No. Fuck this. 

I get out of the car.

What am I actually concerned about right now? I’m getting expelled? Or forced out of this school. Why does this bother me? 

I walk inside. Let the messenger bag with the school logo slip off my shoulders and crash to the floor.

No, this doesn’t bother me. I’m not bothered about getting kicked out- I’ve been doing everything to get that outcome. Smoking in the boys bathroom. Showing up to homeroom still drunk. I jumped Sephiroth knowing the consequences. Written damning essays. Cursing out nuns. 

I follow my mother’s quaking voice to the kitchen, where she paces back and forth; she’s speaking German but I don’t understand the inflections or tones. 

Maybe it’s the fact I’m not getting kicked out for anything I actually did, but for a story told from a liar’s foul mouth. But the implications were finally the last straw. 

I glide to the sliding glass doors which offer a view of Reno’s massive home. The windows peak over the fence my father built like two sinister black eyes. 

No, I’m not upset I’m more than likely getting kicked out- junior year to boot- and will have to start over in a different school. With different people. And my previous excitement at the thought of going to Tifa’s school died when she walked out my side entrance, into the arms of Rude, and refused to speak to me again. Rightfully so, but fuck that still hurts. 

No. No. What I’m feeling isn’t anger towards injustice. Or the worriment of the unknown next steps. Or the crushing sadness of my secrets willfully exposed to the world. No. 

I feel the tidal wave. And it’s blind fear. For someone else; who I have fallen in love with at entirely too young of an age to understand the consequences of that intensity. But I felt it the second we met we were connected. Like we knew each other in a past life- or in an alternate universe. He could read my mind with a look, and I could do the same with just the way he flicked his eyes in my direction. And I fell for him the moment our lips met. Maybe even before. And I sewed our futures together in the fabric in my mind--

And now there’s a possibility, in that house, all those hopes and dreams are being ripped and torn into

Nothing. 

I can’t let that happen. 

Fuck, I’m about to do something real dumb. 

I rip the sliding door open and charge outside, my mother yelling after me  _ “where the fuck- what the fuck are you doing! _ ?” But I don’t bother answering because she’s a million miles away, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and I am here. On a one way street, with no fucking plan. And try to gather as much momentum in my stiff legs- when was the last time I ran an actual lap?- and run for the fence, weakened from the times Reno climbed over to see me. Weak and flimsy. And I hear the crack of wood splintering my shoe makes contact in the middle and I grab the edge-

Use whatever upper body strength God gave me birth to hurl myself up and over the fence-

And this shit must be higher than any other fence I’ve taken while running from cops through backyards of strangers houses. Because my arms yell similar expletives as my mother. And my lungs, blackened and covered in tar, laugh as I literally just toss my body over the other side…

I think about the first time Reno did this- how graceful he looked when he landed hard on his ankle. His long limbs with sculpted muscles tightening when he braced for impact. 

And--I’m too distracted by just the image of him, that I flounder like a dying fish and slam to ground, on my shoulder, with a loud thud I swear alerts the whole fucking neighborhood to my epic failure. 

I roll on my side to the tune of my own deranged laughter at the sheer ridiculousness of what I am doing. I hear my mother shouting at me from the other side. But I’m still under water so nothing she says makes sense. Just her last  _ “What the fuck!”  _ echoing behind her as she leaves- I’m guessing so she can grab the car and sprint to the other side of the street. To...stop me? Nah, she’ll never make it. I gather my bruised bones and ego- make a mental note to get back in the gym with Barret- and dust myself off. 

I have never been on this side of the yard. No grass in sight. The entire length covered by stone pavers; and I notice the once large tree that had been rooted in the center most of my life has been completely eradicated and replaced with a ridiculous pool that takes up most of the yard. There’s a white gazebo on the other end surrounded by bushes and small concentrated sections of blossoming flowers. Unlike my yard, rusted old furniture left to the elements are non-existent. This place screams luxury. 

But I refocus. He also has a sliding door that leads into his house. The lights are on and I try that first.

Acknowledge that I have about zero game plan. 

I dig into my pocket, thankful I kept my phone there and it isn’t shattered from my landing. I call my house number knowing my mother won’t be home, probably circling the block right now- and hope the voicemail box isn’t full. At least if these people try to, I don’t know, murder me…

I pause. 

Recall the broken threads of a story Reno told me at the beach. His father’s retaliation to the news of his sexuality. History repeats itself, now...what am I walking into?

And if that was supposed to deter me, it doesn’t. I continue to the sliding door and to my surprise, it’s not locked.  _ Idiots _ . Clearly new to the scene.

I quietly make my way through the ornate monster of southern indulgence. Keeping my ears cautiously opened for any sounds of hurt, pain...Something that grips me and chills my body to the core. The mud room I traverse through offers nothing, still too far outside the comfort of the home, but I make my way to the glowing light of a kitchen. I can hear the muffled voices grow and I swallow my wavering fear away; try to find strength somewhere in this broken image of a boy. I’m just a boy- 

I emerge into the sterile kitchen which glistens and shines unnaturally. Like no one has cooked a single meal in this place. A staged home. Something you see in a catalog. Everything new from the modern black appliances that line the walls- a refrigerator with only a calendar...no pictures of family, no drawings from their toddler son-

“Hello,” a small voice sends my soul to hell for a second and I snap my head towards the owner. A tiny human. With the same auburn hair as his father, though with darker hues of brown, and bright blue eyes that are a dead ringer for his older brother that they startle me. I wonder if Reno looked like him as a kid. Small. Adorably innocent. He stands up in his seat, with a peanut sandwich in his hands and all over his chunky baby face. He seems completely unfazed by the intruder in his house, disheveled blonde hair that clings to my forehead from beads of sweat, and a wrinkled uniform that I’m sure has some fresh wear and tear from the encounter with pavers. His smile bright, wide, forcing his eyes to close. 

“Uh, hey, P-Pheonix,” I say, and he giggles. 

“Who are you?” He tilts his head to the side, chewing his sandwich with his mouth open. He’s never seen me before. He’s just...looking at me like this is a completely normal occurrence. And I count this as a second strike against his parents. Unlocked doors? No stranger danger? 

“I’m a friend of your brother…” I arch an eyebrow, waiting for...something...for him to scream for help. But he just nods his head and continues to eat his sandwich. “Do you know where he is?”

He shrugs, “Daddy and Reno were fighting. And uh-” He points to the ceiling, “I think they went upstairs or” he points to the floor, “Downstairs.”

“You’re a great help,” I roll my eyes- though who’s the asshole interrogating a five year old. “I’m just gonna take a look around, cool stuff?” He nods and goes back to eating his sandwich. I leave him at the kitchen table, unsafely standing in his chair staring at a coloring book, and continue to make my way through the house.

A labyrinth. I feel like I’m in a never ending hallway that breaks into entirely too large rooms that have no other purpose but to give off the illusion of grandeur. And I thought my house was a farce. A perfectly constructed mask to hide the ugly on the inside. But my house has cracks in the foundations and holes in the wall. And destroyed furniture that we’ve left to the elements, and I can’t think of a better place to fully represent how fucked up the Strifes are on the inside- once you look past the mowed lawn and stunning stained glass door. But at least we own it- now. This, the library with rows of books, the family room without the TV, the other family room with the grand piano. Everything muted. Dark. Wood paneling and neutral curtains. Fake flowers and plastic plants. No pictures of a family. None of Reno, at least. No wedding photos. I pass a portrait in one of the rooms of what looked like a larger family- maybe his father’s. 

But I’m not really trying to focus on the lack of character- or soul- in this house. I’m trying to listen for chaos. 

I’m met with silence like the deepest part of space. 

And I can’t find a fucking staircase anywhere. 

And my resolve begins to weaken the longer I roam these empty halls. The tsunami in my stomach rumbles- ready to make landfall. I can’t find him...any remnant of him. I wonder all the things they have done to him in the past; if this is a repeat. What if it's worse? What if he can’t call out for help to deaf ears? He told me how he blacked out the first time; my whole body starts to tense with primal fear. Nausea swirls. And I know my mother is either circling the block, or trying to figure out exactly which house I ran into; and I’m racing against the clock. If she rings the bell and pulls me out, it’s over. Really over.

But if I find him, then what?

I come up to a foyer that’s about the size of my parent’s master bedroom. Two large white double doors leading to the front yard and desolate street. Another entrance across from me and what looks like an art room littered with portraits. I finally find the gold bannister staircase that leads to the upper portion of the house. I strain my ears for any sounds of distress- but I met with the howl of the wind rattling the glass. I think of calling out to him, but my throat tightens at the thought of hearing my raspy voice echoing back to me- and all that would alert his parents to the stranger in their house.

Well, not a stranger actually. 

I’m about to make my way to the staircase when the house shaking captures my attention. 

Frantic footsteps charging up stairs.  _ Boom boom boom _ **.** Like small explosions. 

A door flying open- followed by two other sets of feet in pursuit. From the art room, objects crashing to the floor. Shattering glass. The sounds enclose around me-

And Reno emerges from the room, skidding to a stop when he sees me- face flushed, broken, bloodied. Red liquid gathering in his mouth, falling from bruised lips. His knuckles cut with scratches from returned punches. He’s sweating, breathing as if his lungs are about to collapse. His uniform completely destroyed. Stained and covered in rips and tears. He lost his tie at some point, but I notice the red ring forming around his neck like a noose. 

He narrows his blue eyes directly at me. “Cloud?” He hisses, “What the fuck-”

I don’t hear him finish his sentence, I snap my eyes over his shoulder to the image of his vengeful father emerging from the darkness. And he must have seen the way my eyes go wide, because he swings around in time to dodge his father’s extending arm. His bare teeth glowing, salivating with rage. But Reno backs up, colliding into an unfortunate end table decorated with fake orchids and a picture of a modest scenery, sending both to the floor in a chorus of destruction. 

His father raises his fist but halts any movements when he catches my form in the corner of his bloodshot eyes. A satisfying tear of blood rolls down the wrinkles of his face from an open wound near his temple. His glasses missing now; his lids puffed and rimmed a vermillion red. Trembling blues that attempt to register my existence in his perfect home. Clicks, like from the hooves of a horse, advance from behind me. And I turn, to see a tall, regal woman, dressed in a black turtleneck and black slacks. Strawberry blonde hair pulled back into a bun so tight, it stretches her facial features into an unnatural form. Her almond shaped eyes narrow, almost completely white, with a hint of baby blue. Like something out of  _ Village of the Damned _ . Her thin lips pinched shut with a visible frown. 

She regards me with the tightening of her lids, then looks at her husband who brings his fist intended for his son back to his side. 

“Who’s this?” She snaps.

“The boy our son got himself entangled with,” Don drawls.

Not liking being spoken to like I don’t fucking exist, I turn back to the woman and offer her a two finger salute. “Hi-ya, I’m Cloud Strife…”

She recoils, “A Strife?” Her sours like my last name tasted foul on her tongue. 

“What are you doing in my house?” he growls, giving me his full attention. His breathing slowly returns to an even state as he adjusts his suit jacket and attempts to create an illusion, like he wasn’t just about to hit his son. 

And I roll the question through my head. The sweat making the phone in my hand slick as it continues to, hopefully, record anything. What am I doing here? I felt drawn like a moth to a burning fire. My legs moved as if carried by another force completely. My brain focused on a single task- find Reno. 

Well I found him- cut up and trying to hide the tremble rocking his body. His hands in his pockets now; and I can see the outline of the straight razor as his fingers enclose around the handle. I blink back to his father, who waits impatiently for my explanation. Fist clenched. The leather sole of his shoe tapping like rain on the roof. 

I stumbled in here without a plan and now I have three sets of eyes all a different shade of blue glued to me. But the only color that matters flickers like lightning. 

“Reno.”

He offers me a side glare- splitting his attention between me and his father. His taut lips, like a perfect straight line, twitch when I call for him. “You can leave…” I find myself saying and he arches an eyebrow at me. “Just walk out the door. We can talk to someone about getting you emancipated--”

His father roars with laughter; his voice like the static of radio. “He’s seventeen-years-old. He can not be emancipated unless the motion is filed in conjunction with another court case.” Don’s false smile shrivels away. “And if he tries to leave, I’ll report him as a runaway and he’ll be dragged back here whether he likes it  _ or not _ .”

“Not if I call CPS and report you for child abuse,” I hiss. “He told me what you did to him.”

“I can discipline my son any way I see fit.”

“So breaking his arm in two places and then lying to the doctors about the nature of his injuries is discipline in Tennessee?”

“Yes,” he confirms; throwing a look at his son-who’s been stunningly quiet to the point it unnerves me, “if only he  _ learned that  _ lesson the first time.”

“And now, he’s bleeding, running away from you…”

“Yes. In my home in which you are currently trespassing,” he crosses his arms over his chest. 

I bite the inside of my lip. Donald Sinclair regards me with little patience- and I’m running out of time before this escalates. Reno’s mother huffs to my left, hands locked on her hips as she stares daggers at her husband. Or maybe that’s the botox pulling at the corners of her eyes. 

“I’ll tell everyone.” My simple response. Only thing I could come up with. “I’ll tell my parents. My neighbors. All my friends. I’ll tell everyone what you are doing to your son. My best friends’ have parents who are social workers and uncles who are police officers. I’ll tell the one teacher at our school who gives a shit. I’ll tell everyone and anyone.”

“Who are they going to believe?” his father shakes his head, taking his eyes off me to look at his brick wall of a wife. “A respected lawyer, friends with the borough president himself, or  _ you?”  _ The way he enunciates  _ you _ like it sums up all my faults. Just the simple inflection should tell the world how unreliable I am. “Go ahead. Tell them what you saw today. No one will believe the likes of you over me. There’s nothing you can do, boy. So, run on home to your drunk mother.”

The way his words slither through his tongue like a rattle snake’s warning dance freezes my lips shut. I take them in. Look over at Reno, his right arm trembles; hand still in the pocket gripping onto the blade. And there’s the same glower expression with murder in his eyes as in the bathroom, when he had Yazoo on the floor and the cold metal on his cheek. My stomach drops. 

I came here for him...

So, I swallow my fear, stand tall. Point my glare at his father. “Yeah, you got me, sir. People may not believe just me but,” I raise the phone from behind my back, showing the time of the call ticking up- which I inward take a breath of relief that the message machine didn’t cut off. “I mean, good thing my mom sucks at answering the phone and it’s been recording  _ this whole time _ .”

Don’s smirk crashes and burns. Jaw clenched tight. He looks between the three people in the room. First his son, their silent exchange so tense you could see the smoke of frustration rise around them. Then to his wife, who crosses her arms over her chest, and shoots her husband a disappointed frown. Then me. My phone which still records. The gears turning behind his eyes. Trying to see just how much pull he has-

“That won’t hold up in court,” he counters flatly, but I anticipate he expects my next response. 

“Sure,” I shrug, “Court of public opinion is more damaging to a potential congressman, eh? Our last borough president lost his reelection after his grandson wrecked his car around a pole, drunk. Another guy lost when his daughter was caught one too many times with drugs in her system. Children really do a good job of fucking up your politcal career, right?” 

“I’ll block it-”

“My godfather is the editor of the Staten Island Advance,” I bring the phone behind my back, still allowing it to record for as long as it can, “A democrat and huge critic of President Shinra. Imagine the scandal?” My lips twitch, overwhelmed with warmth from the control I suddenly wield. “C _ lose friend of B.P Shinra and congress hopeful, Donald Sinclair, accused of child abuse.  _ Or something along those lines. And even though Staten Island has some warped opinions, I’m pretty sure most would draw the line there.”

The house falls quiet. My heart slamming against my ribcage becomes the only sound I can hear. A lump gathers in my throat. Part of me can’t believe I stood up to him; this small man with hate and disgust tainted in his eyes. And the other part doesn’t believe he’s going to let me walk out of this house, with Reno. I look at his nameless mother, she stares blankly at her husband.  _ No soul _ . Reno described her lacking any kind of emotion; and I note at no point did she even acknowledge the existence of her older son. Not even a flinch at the wounds on his face. The blood in his mouth. No argument when her husband admitted to his vulgar discipline techniques. 

I realize they have engaged in their own muted conversation. And I get the sense the tides are starting to turn.

I run my tongue over my teeth to unhook my jaw. One more plea. “Just let him leave.”

All three flick their eyes to me. And I continue, tentatively closing the gap between Reno and I, and never taking my eyes off the predator before me. 

“Is it really worth the trouble?” I hate saying it like this; talking down about Reno like he doesn’t exist in this room with us. But my last effort. My grand finale. “You sent him away once, right? It didn’t work. You can’t...change him. And I can argue that there’s nothing that needs to be changed because he’s perfect in every single way. And him being gay should not even be on your radar of things that needs to be fixed. But I’ll just be wasting my breath, because all you care about is your political career and your image.” 

I pause and cringe at the despicable face he makes- a slight nod of agreement. And I can’t see Reno because I’m focused on his father, but I can feel his muscles relax next to me. “So,” I show him I shut the phone, ending the recording, “Just let him walk out. Leave him alone...let him live his life the way he wants and he’s choices won’t affect you or your future campaign, anymore.” 

I don’t wait for his response and turn to face Reno completely. His shoulders deflated, but his eyes still wild and unpredictable. “Reno…” I whisper softly and he moves his glassy blues to me. And if we weren’t in front of these people, I would pull him into a hug he would never vocalize he needed. “I told you...if you ever needed to run away…” 

I extend my hand. And I still don’t know if they will let him walk out that door. And if they do...how long before they call the boys with the white jackets to drag him away. And the thought evaporates the power I felt push my words from my mouth. But I feel his fingers glide across my palm. And interlock with mine. I’m absorbed into his gaze. His face still tense, but his eyes relax. And I wish I could heal the cut on his lip. And the bruise forming under his eye. And all the internal wounds he has never processed since he was outed. I know I’m afraid, and from how he squeezes my hand he’s terrified. 

I came here for him. I’m leaving with him and we’ll face the consequences together. 

We both look at his father, still engaged in his silent standoff with his unmoving wife. 

“Right so,” I start backing up towards the door with a willing Reno. His parents shoot us tense, emotionless, expressions but make no threats to stop us. “We’re just gonna mosey home now…” 

I open the door. The sun pours into the stuffy foyer illuminating the dust particles that fall around us like snow. The street devoid of life, the neighbors homes dark, but the natural light shines against the budding green trees and reflects over the black tar street. Smells like freshly cut grass and roses. Like new beginnings. One more foot out the door and we can start to put the pieces of our broken lives back together. 

“Reno,” the stern voice calls out. I squeeze his hand as he throws a hateful look at his father. “You walk out that door and you are no longer welcomed back. You are dead to this family.”

A daunting pause. He doesn’t move- and I’m worried he might change his mind. Walking out of ones family can not be easy. I’ve said it in passing. In empty threats. But the reality...this is the only world he’s ever known. Those mannequin faces the only source of love he’d experience. Cold. Unforgiving. And while I am begging him with my own eyes, I would...understand if he couldn’t bring himself to walk into the warmth of the outside. To the warmth of my home. To my own unstable teenage love. 

But Reno shrugs, “I’ve been dead to this family for a year. What else is new?” He takes the first step out, dragging me with him, not waiting for his parents to retort. And the door closes on the Sinclairs unblinking, unflinching, forms. 

We walk down the desolate street, hand in hand, gripping tightly until I feel the circulation cut off. My heart is still in a panicked state, but I swallow any harsh breaths that threaten to give away my current state. 

Once we make it to the corner, out of the sight of his parent’s home. He comes to a dead stop, rips his hand from mine. And before I have a chance to register what he’s doing, he starts a half-assed assault on my shoulder while expletives spill carelessly from his mouth. 

“Are.you.fucking.insane?!” he shouts, with every syllable accented with his southern drawl. 

“Woah!” I grab his wrist to halt his weak attack and pull him a step closer. He’s taller, looks down into my eyes; half misguided rage and half a well of tears that he swallows back. “I’m not insane. I wasn’t going to let you get hurt.”

“So, you just break into my house? What if my dad pulled out his fucking gun, yo!”

“Like he would shoot me?” I scoff with a nervous laugh, but Reno doesn’t share in my amusement. 

“Yeah, he fucking would,” he bites and unhooks my hand from his wrist. “And you call me short-sighted.”

He turns to spit some of the gathering blood from his mouth, wiping it away with the back of his hand. In the waning light, shadows cast from underneath the tree we stand below, I see the bruise begin to form. And everything in me stalls. I instinctively reach my hand to cup his wounded cheek, almost expecting him to slap my limb away. But he surprises me with just a tense look. One I struggle to read with all the conflict etched along the lines of his face as he leans into my touch. Out in the open. No use hiding when the world knows of our apparent transgressions. 

“Are yo-”

“Don’t ask me dumb questions,” he growls, “of course I’m not.”

“I’m sorry,” I let my hand begin to fall, gliding calloused fingers along the smoothness of his skin, but he captures my wrist against freezing us in that position. 

“Sorry for what?” His tone softens, “Gotta stop apologizing for shit that ain’t your fault.”

There’s a crack in his voice. One he tries to hide with a wounded cough, like his words slice through his throat as tiny razor blades. And I twist my hand from his grasp and immediately replace my affection with both arms around his neck, pulling him as close as his body allows. I can feel the exposed skin of his chest through my button down, and he’s both warm and freezing as the wind washes over us. He doesn’t move at first. Doesn’t return the hug. I squeeze him because he doesn’t feel real to me. Like there’s still a possibility he’ll be ripped from my arms and cease to exist. The thought is unbearable. 

Then he moves; his face into my hair where he takes a sharp breath and then his arms envelope my body; his firm hands pushing on my back and somehow we manage to get closer. And like our bodies are molded to one another. I can’t tell where I begin and he ends. The curvatures like roads that intersect and collide. I don’t know which one of us shakes. Or if it’s his knees that feel like they are about to give out, or mine. I think one of us has a sob locked in their chest- or both. 

Suddenly the reality that I’ve kept in the back of my mind begins to bring itself to the forefront. 

Everything has changed within the span of almost two weeks. And nothing will ever be the same. We can’t go back- be it to school, or the closet. Reno can’t even go back home. A thought that punctures and he squeezes tighter as if he could read my mind. I’m sure questions plague him which he has yet to vocalize. What’s next? Where will he go? And the answer becomes obvious to me, but that could be wishful thinking. 

A car door closing puts a cap on my erupting thoughts. We drop our tangled limbs and move away- instinct- and look at the source of the noise. My mother’s white SUV parked across the street and her stomping towards us with her eyes focused directly at me.

“What the hell, Cloud Strife?!” She shrieks, throwing her hands in the air, “You can’t just run into people’s backyards that hate us, what if that asshole had a gun?”

I’m rattled. “I don’t know!? Get shot and die, the fuck!”

“That’s not the right answer,” she fumes while shaking her head incredulously. Then she spots Reno, next to me, and her face drops. Her furious gray eyes move around his face; first confused, as if she tries to remember if he had these wounds on his face when we left Heidegger’s office. Then wide, eyebrows raised to the sky, as the realization dawns on her. 

“Oh no,” her voice soft as a feather that hardly has enough energy to reach our ears. She takes a hesitant step, examining the cut and bruise on his face, and he flinches when she reaches her hands to get a better look. “What did they do to you?”

Reno doesn’t answer. Curls his lips in and forces his eyes to look away. He’s vulnerable; in a way I’ve never seen. Not even in the beginning of our relationship when his past trauma would leak into the bedroom while we tried to explore our bodies. He’s fragile. And it frightens me to see someone so strong, who I’ve admired for his strength in the face of adversity, begins to unravel from just a kind touch from a mother. 

“Come on,” my mother’s voice is stern, commanding. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” I question, not entirely sure what her intentions are; and I grab Reno’s hand again as a firm stance that where I go, he goes. 

Her eyes flick to our joined fingers in a flash and she simply responds. “Home.”

* * *

Claudia wastes no time when we enter the house. She’s furious and on a mission, as if the attack had happened to her own son. The message machine blinks one single message in red lights. I told her the contents of that message  _ should  _ be the phone call I made and she holds off on touching it until she can make one important phone call- to someone who could help Reno. She didn’t even ask him what happened. But I guess the answer to the unasked question echoed across our faces; and a new problem to the even growing list presented itself. 

“So, Cloud,” she begins, her voice trembling as she digs into her bag once again for the missing cell phone she can't ever seem to find. “Why don’t you get Reno some clothes so he can get comfortable?”

Reno and I exchange a look, and his lips waver into a smirk. A crack of normalcy during this chaos gives me hesitant hope. But his eyes are throbbing with pain from holding everything inside. There’s a weight I can feel, heavy between us, and I know he needs some kind of release. Too proud to break down unlike me. 

“Have at it,” I urge him, returning a smile that feels forced, “Just don’t take any of the five hundred black band shirts I own.”

“Right, take all five hundred for myself, got it.” He forces a chuckle; but it’s all fake. He thanks me for not pushing him with a rapid blink, that steals some beats of my heart, and he heads upstairs. Allowing a flash of how utterly destroyed he feels across his broken face. 

I follow my mother into the kitchen as she dumps the rest of the contents in her ridiculous Valentino purse. 

“Who are you calling?” I ask just as she grabs her phone and flips it open. 

“A friend who might be able to give us some advice on how to handle,” she gestures frantically, “this whole shit.”

“How do you know?” I grimace. 

She halts, her thumb over the call button and eyes glued to the device. She drags her teeth across her bottom lip- and I know when I do that I’m racking my brain through a tragic memory. I don’t know much about my mother’s past. Only that she got pregnant too young with me and had to drop out of college, marry my father, and move into this house originally owned by opa. I deduced that her alcoholism and drug abuse began before my existence, and maybe I’ve followed a similar path as hers. But from the way her eyes seem to disappear, there’s so much more to her story I’ve haven’t even cracked open. 

Then she looks directly at me. Our eyes meet- and this time when I read her, she has too many things she wants to say to me. But she smiles. “This, unfortunately, ain’t my first rodeo.” She looks back to the phone, “I’ve had my own run-ins with controlling men.”

And I know the image of her father pops in her head as she pushes the call button. “Go,” she waves me off, “go make sure he’s okay…”

We both know, he’s not.

And I know he struggles with showing emotions; I’ve gotten glimpse like puzzle pieces throughout the six months we've been together-

Six months. Feels longer. So much happened in just half a year. And this next chapter just seems riddled with too much conflict to be healthy. But I trudged upstairs, because clearly mom needs to have a private “adult” conversation with a mysterious person- a lawyer perhaps. Maybe an old friend who’s helped her in the past? A time she needed to flee her own home..

The door to my room is half ajar when I reach the top of the stairs, and I creep in to the tune of the shower running- and I’m glad he feels comfortable enough to help himself to whatever amenities my house has to offer. I let a hopeful thought plant in my brain, that he should be comfortable because he’ll be staying here for a while- but pause...at the selfishness of that hope. And how devastating the reality must be for him; if his only option for shelter is his off-on boyfriend…

I glide along the wall and stop by the bathroom, steam leaking from the crack in the door. I’m reminded of the first night we became one; as the clock struck midnight and 2004 gave way to 2005. And just like then, when he slipped into the privacy of the blue tiled room, he curses at an unseen enemy. Only this time every inhale he takes sputters and every exhale is a “fuck” that echoes above the crashing water. 

I want to hold him. 

Feed him well intentioned lies- that it’s all over. He’s safe.

But letting our guard now during these crucial moments could be detrimental. I pull myself away from the door, giving him at least some privacy, and change out of my own uniform that sticks to my body. My muscles burn and I realize I’ve been clenching my jaw this whole time, my shoulders up to my neck. My left arm screams in pain and I see the pinpricks of blood on skin from the impact on pavers. And I should be thanking whatever guardian angel got stuck with my case I didn’t break my fucking arm, again. 

I put on a pair of black ripped jeans and black long sleeve; thinking I can blend into the shadows and hide from the rest of the world. I just want to vanish for a bit- float through the lifestream completely detached from reality. Shut my brain off. Go to sleep for six years and wake up to nothing. 

A cough from behind me pulls me from that fantasy as quickly as I entered. And I turn to Reno, leaning against the threshold, wearing my black sweats and white top. His hair still wet as he runs his fingers through the dripping locks of red. 

“So, these are mine forever,” he gestures to the pants without looking at me. “Cause I ain’t got any boxers and I ain’t wearing yours.” He keeps his eyes on the floor, his humor disrupted by the pain etched along his iris’. 

He’s trying to bury his emotions with sarcasm and I’m not sure how to navigate these uncharted territories. And I know all the questions I want to ask mean nothing right now. 

“You...think I’m skeeved by your dick all up in my pants?” I deadpan, “...considering where your dick has been…”

A twitch along his lips, but his voice still sounds miles away. “Point taken…” he folds his arms against his chest; his eyes look a million miles away, reliving some other tragic event. I take a seat on my bed, hoping silently he’ll join me. But he’s frozen stone; like a statue, leaning up against the threshold. “What’s your mom doing?”

“I think she’s making phone calls. Maybe a lawyer or something.”

An acidic chuckle. “Yeah...what’s that gonna do?” 

His tone renders me silent and I pinch my lips shut. I don’t have any words to help. Not hopeful exclamations. He’s lived this life for seventeen years; he knows his parents better than I could ever want to. And while I know my mother can be vicious when it comes to protecting her own, for far too long I’ve only seen her as the lush who could barely pull herself from her bed to melt into a couch. Only conscious to jump to my defense, deserved or not. I know she’s trying to help him because of me; because she definitely saw the way we kissed under the stars, and she knows from how I grabbed his hand, I’d sooner run away than leave him to wolves. How long will this umbrella she has over him last? When his father shows up with his own set of legal, threatening to take me down. 

But...can’t think about the future possibilities. All roads untraveled. All that matters is the present. The right now. Him staring into the corner struggling to to keep his face from showing every bit of hurt that throbs in his chest. 

“Hey,” I call out. He makes eye contact, though carefully. “What can I do to...help then?”

His frown softens as he scans my face. And he looks so closed off, so distant, I can’t read him. And it makes me feel like I’m in the woods, navigating a minefield; one wrong step. He grunts, though, and joins me on the bed. His muscles shifting, bones cracking, as lowers himself close to me. Our legs meet; and under normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed the sparks that erupt when we touch. 

Reno’s eyes linger on the open closet; swallowing back words that he tastes on his tongue. 

A dejected sigh shatters the silence. “This is the first time my dad’s talked to me in nine months, you know.” He tears his eyes away and stares at the bruises along his knuckles. “When my arm healed, he drove us up to New York to leave me and the car with Rude. Twelve hours, non stop. He found every.single.christian propaganda channel to play the entire fucking ride. Over and over again. Just to really push the knife in and twist.” He shakes his head with a devastating smile. “Then he dropped me off. We were standing outside the car and he handed me the keys. It was so bizarre; just a silent deal we made during the ride that I never agreed to. And then, right before he got into the cab to go back to the airport, he looked at me and said  _ what a disappointment you turned out to be _ .” He rests his head against his knuckles. “That was the last thing he said to me before today.”

The words echo Heidegger. How many times can he hear such a lie before it takes root. Becomes a truth.

“When we got home,” he continued, “he told me they were sending me away. This  _ school _ for ‘troubled boys.’ down near Memphis. I’m an ‘embarrassment’ trying to ‘ruin’ him. He worked  _ too fucking hard _ to get  _ this fucking far _ just to have me destroy this family. And if I refuse to  _ fall in line _ then I have no purpose...” He mocks his father. His face curved with revulsion. “Then he mentioned your name and I…”

His voice trails off, lifts his head to look at his trembling hands, “I don’t know what he started to say, but he never finished. I punched him in the face once I heard your name come out of his mouth.” A shake of his head, “I threw the first punch so...he can say anything he wants and they’ll take me away. He can send me to whatever hell he has planned and leave me to rot…”

I knew the situation was bad- dire even. But I mistook his resilience as control. Foolishly, I told myself he had a handle on this and...eleven months would be simple to navigate. The promises he made effortlessly. Now. Weeks later from that conversation in his car, where he begged me not to leave, that he would figure it all out. He could have it all- me and the luxury that comes with being a lawyer’s son. And I believed in his assurances. 

Now he sits on my bed, unsure of where he will be able to rest his head going forward. 

“I can’t go back,” he whispers. His voice seizes though, as if all the sorrow that crushes his soul threatens to overflow, and he hides his broken eyes behind his lids as he tries to breathe his way through every quaking rumble of tears. And there are a million meanings behind his statement. Can’t go back home. Can’t go back to Tennessee to be subjected to more abuse. He can’t go back for survival. He can’t go back...because his parents don’t want him. 

I reach out to him, running my fingers over the red bruise around his neck- pushing away the image of how he received such a mark. He shivers under my touch, but doesn’t stop me from pulling him against me. His head on my shoulder as my arms entangle him. He shakes within the safety of my embrace, but still refuses the pleasure of releasing his tears from the back of his eyes. So I just hold him. Rubbing the muscles on his arms that must burn from attacking all his enemies. 

I have a chorus of words I wish to rain on him.

He will never go back to that place of hate; because his place is here.

And we will find a way to keep the monsters at bay. No one will hurt him again, not if I can help it. But I already anticipate his pessimistic counter arguments; because at the end of day, while short-sighted, he’s pragmatic. While I’m a romantic without logic.

So I wash away all the cliches. Rest my head on his, and sing a poem I came across during my own dark days- hoping these stolen words will bring him comfort as they did for me:

“ _ Tomorrow will be better _

_ for tomorrow comes out of the lake.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mapped the last six chapters of this fic. It's coming to an end and I'm not sure how I feel. I love writing this story. And I love all of you who have supported me. It means so much to me. Thank you, from the bottom of my little black heart, for every kudo, and comment, and like on Tumblr. I haven't written a story so feverishly and intensely in years. And it's thanks to you beautiful humans. This chapter was heavy, but we are coming to some more positive territory. 
> 
> The poem is by Italian-American poet Emanuel Carnevali and it's called _Hope_. The English major in me has been trying to interpret the last line "for tomorrow comes from the lake." And it feels like magic to me. There's an unknown to lakes, maybe even something haunting. And to have something come from the cold water of a lake could be mystical. We also don't know what tomorrow brings, much like we may not know every detail of a lakes. I don't know, I've also described Cloud's eyes as "lake eyes" because his are blue with swirls of green (just like in the game with the mako). So he probably feels he'll make Reno feel better, which is a juvenile thought, but definitely something anyone would feel. Also,I had Reno's reaction originally written but I decided to just leave the poem. But he's probably like "the fuck's wrong with you, Cloud." Because he hates poetry. 
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you think about that poem. And the chapter. I am already on a roll with the next chapter so hopefully I can continue on this streak! THanks again


	37. Where Do We Go From Here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW  
> Some negative parent relationships, but nothing too intense.

Reno always made it easy to forget his toxic home life. He pushed any inquiries away by pinning me under him and silenced any potential questions with his lips on mine. And I was too engrossed with  _ him _ that I didn’t bother to push the subject. But even when he refused to speak on his homelife, the hints would rear their head occasionally..

The weekend after Sephiroth’s accident, back in January, which feels like decades ago, one such clue appeared. Everyone still on high alert, many parents grounded their children that weekend or enacted curfews. Reno and I seemed like the only two who bypassed the panic. My parents only acknowledgement was asking if I had been at the party- and when I lied and said  _ of course not _ , they bought it. And why wouldn’t they? When they had left that Saturday, Reno and I were “playing video games” in my room. And when they woke up the next day, Reno and I were still “playing video games.” They just assumed we spent nearly twenty four hours playing  _ Mortal Kombat _ . So, when Reno showed up the following Friday afternoon after school, they had no objections. Even took him out to dinner with us to Deninos and let us rent a bunch of horror movies from  _ Blockbuster _ . Neither one of them bat an eye when they turned in for the night and he was still sitting on my bed with me.

We had a system. My parents could give a shit- his parents, he thought, might throw a fit if they wake up and he’s not home. We would stay up till all hours of the night- never an issue, when our lips were tasting every part of exposed skin and we stifled moans of pleasure in pillow cases or our own fists. And once we finished, lay in each other’s arms tracing imaginary paths on his milky white skin, while he continued to find reason to stay. And when the darkness outside began to lighten, he would find the motivation to hop back over the fence, climb up a perfectly placed arbor, and tumble through his open window. While I watched shaking my head at his recklessness. 

It was a good system. 

But this particular night, we ended up falling asleep during  _ Island of the Dead _ , and we were woken up by the rumble of plows traveling up and down our road. My head on his still clothed chest, legs thrown over his. A winter glow leaking into the window through the crack in the closed curtains and when my eyes adjusted to the new morning light, I watched as flurries cascaded down the glass. Adding to the mysterious magic of waking up still in his arms. And I was so captivated by the scene-the warmth as his hand snuck underneath my shirt to touch my hip, high off his smell- that it took me about ten seconds to register the  _ obvious _ daylight outside. And I sat up with such force, it jarred him awake. 

_ Shit _ , I cursed.

I remember him blinking a few times, confused, before following my eyes to the window and jumping up himself.  _ Fuck! _

We both scramble off the bed like roaches. And I remember the inward panic that one or both my parents came to check on us and found us in that compromising position. That gave way to straight up terror when I caught sight of the red numbers on the cable box screaming eight am in our faces. His parents woke up at the crack of dawn. If they looked into his room and found him missing, at that hour...I was sure we were found out either way. But we were too stricken with alarm- particularly how we are going to sneak him out of this house- to take a step back. Analyze the situation. And merely look at his phone for missed calls. 

We crept downstairs. My dad outside shoveling the blanket for snow that dumped overnight and my mother a mystery, but I swept the downstairs to be sure. Once the first obstacle cleared, we went through the basement side entrance. His idea to climb the fence and try to use the piling snow to his advantage. We broke through the freezing cold, him in just his leather jacket and my hoody, me in just a long sleeve thermal, trying not to freeze to death as we walked through white power up to our calfs. 

We heard the sounds of a joyful child and we paused. My whole form just stalled- heart, mind, limbs. I mumbled a tense  _ shit _ and looked at him- but his face no longer strung with anxiety at getting caught.. His eyes narrowed to two perfect slits. Air hanging in the air from two just slightly parted lips. He stood there, listening to his brother playing in the snow, throwing constructed balls at the fence. A female voice with a thick Russian accent shouted at him from somewhere in his yard. 

Then, he nodded like something dawned on him and pulled out his phone. 

I called him crazy as he ran over his mother’s contact and hit call. 

She answered after four rings with an unsure  _ hello? _

“ _ Sup birth giver,”  _ he sassed, “ _ where y’all at?” _

She rattled off something quickly I couldn’t catch and he just shook his head.  _ “Cool stuff.” _ I leaned in- which was probably rude but Reno never moved away, instead lifted his phone from his ear so I could hear. 

“ _ What are your plans for today _ ?” She asked in a tone that seemed disingenuous, and I could hear the sounds of people in the background. 

“ _ Oh, probably just hang out with Rude. You know.” _

She rushed him off the phone. Hanging up with no other updates. No  _ I’ll see you soon _ . Or  _ I love you _ . Just an  _ okay _ and emptiness of a disconnected phone. He flipped his closed, shoving it back in his pocket. 

“ _ They’re at the Shinra’s. Some fundraiser happening today,”  _ he told me, not bothering to control the volume of his voice, “ _ They had no idea I was gone all night.”  _

Reno turned to face me, hands shoved in his pocket, but he struggled to look me in the eye. His expression blank. Yet, agitated. Gentle shakes of his head as he replayed the conversation. Finally settling on a dejected sigh that blows in the wind. We realized there had been no reason to panic and rush out of bed in the early hours. My parent’s continued to be willfully ignorant to the happenings of their only child while his...I guess couldn’t really care less about him unless it directly affected them.

He was a prop.

And that realization smacked him in the face. 

Before he could really stew in that knowledge, I presented the idea-since no one really cared what we did- to go to the deli and grab some sandwiches. And come back home to continue watching terrible horror movies, and play the  _ Call of Duty _ we rented, and not worry about our parents for the rest of the day-

And he agreed without hesitation. 

And when we walked back towards my house, he said simply

_ You gonna get sick of me eventually... _

And this time I shook my head. 

_ I could never be sick of you _ .

And I meant it then, and I mean it now. His place should be with people who care about where he wakes up in the morning…

Who want him. All the time. 

* * *

My eyes flutter open. And I’m met with the ceiling above me painted with oranges, pinks and light blue, moving like the waves of a calm ocean. My head weighs a ton, limbs vibe with evaporating numbness, as I start to get my bearings. I’m sitting up on my bed, leg dangling off the side, and Reno against my chest. His head nuzzled into my neck. His breathing even. My arms still coiled around his body, keeping him in this position. I’m reminded of the first time we woke up like this, in Kyrie's basement, when he stayed with me all night after a drunken break down. How natural it felt, even then, to lay intertwined. A comfort I’ve never experienced with anyone. 

The open curtains bellow in the wind and the glowing sun sets over the horizon of houses. The serene scene outside drives the chaotic noises forming in the back of my waking head away. Some things are too perfect to not enjoy. But I know I have to leave this space and find out what my mother has been plotting while Reno and I slept on our worries. I try to move without waking him. But as soon as I start sliding my body off the bed, his eyes snap open.

“I’m going to go talk to my mom,” I tell him. He responds by moving himself off me without a word and a listless shrug. He runs his fingers down my arm, stopping at my hand which he takes.

“What time is it?”

I squint at the T.V. “Six thirty.” 

He grunts and rolls over after releasing me. “Wake me when it’s tomorrow.”

My lips fall to a frown; the feeling he’s experiencing all too familiar to me. Consciousness too painful to deal with, so we force ourselves into a hole we can’t dig ourselves out of- covered in  _ blackness _ . A welcomed numb. One I need to pull him from, but his wounds- both physical and mental- are fresh and throbbing. And maybe he just needs to recharge to face whatever mystery of tomorrow. 

I leave him in the darkening room, inform him I’ll be back soon but he waves me off. I jog down the stairs, expecting to hear my mother’s vengeful voice shouting into her cell phone. Or the presence of another body in the house; the elusive benefactor meant solve this ever growing problem. I’m met with the empty house. My uneasiness grows, but I try to rationalize her disappearance. She’s probably somewhere talking privately. Maybe her room… 

And I know I have to find out what the next step of her plan, but fuck I could really use a cigarette right about now. And with no prying mother eyes in sight, I sneak outside to the backyard. The waning light offers no warmth, but the cool air just comfortable enough to be bearable in my current outfit. I take a seat on one of the destroyed lounge chairs which sends a creak cutting through the silent backyard. As soon as I spark the stick, and take an inhale of all those carcinogens, I feel my lungs open. A calming haze falls over me. And I know addiction to something killing me is destructive, but it’s the only thing- right now- with any power to repair my fractured thoughts. 

I dart my eyes to the house poking over the fence. How diabolical that dark gray stone mansion looks now that I’ve been inside. Bore witness to the actual hate that exists behind plastic smiles. What are they thinking about now? What actions of self-preservation are they taking? They can’t be calling the police, they would have been knocking on our door by now. Are they gathering a mob...the rest of the family to force him out? My stomach twists into knots. Reno’s words find their way back to me-  _ I can’t go back _ . What lengths would he go to protect himself? 

“So you’re the one stealing my cigarettes, huh?” My mother’s voice shatters my thoughts. She appears next to me, hands on her hips and an amused smirk dancing along her face. I make a veiled attempt to get rid of the damning evidence to another one of my sins, but she laughs. “No no, it’s fine. The Strifes don’t waste anyway.” She takes a seat next to me, “Besides, I think we’re at the ‘pick your battles’ level in parenting.”

She pulls out her own pack and I swear this has to be some kind of trap. But she doesn’t seem phased at all, and lights her cigarette. 

“So...you’re not mad?” I ask as I tentatively bring my smoke to my lips. 

“Well I’m not  _ happy _ ,” she smiles, “but...I think we have bigger issues than you smoking. Just don’t tell your father. He’ll lose his  _ mind. _ ”

I offer a strained chuckle and quietly inhale. The strangeness of the scene not lost on me: mother and son, addicts, enjoying one of their vices. If any of the militant stay-at-home mom’s witnessed this, CPS would be called, or rumors would spread like a virus throughout the neighborhood that Claudia Strife gives her child drugs. But the houses around us are sparse. And watchful eyes should be engrossed in dinner. 

We smoke in silence.

I enjoy the quiet moments for they are few and far. 

“How’s he doing?” she asks after a few pensive minutes. 

“Terrible,” I respond flatly, “He told me to wake him up when it’s tomorrow.”

She nods, “Yeah, not a great day for him…”

I expected her to continue the conversation, but when I look over she’s staring at the ground. Her eyes drift away. And my worry grows from within. “Who did you call?”

“An old friend of mine,” she takes a drag, “Someone who helped me when I needed to get out of a bad situation.”

“And what did you tell him?” I press, her vagueness wearing on my patience, “And what can he do?”

A loud sigh. She finishes her cigarette without answering me and I grind my teeth trying to hold back the interrogation I want to spring on her. We told her very little about what happened on the short car ride home. Just that Reno’s dad hit him when they got home- nothing about the reason or the conversation we had inside the house. But she still sprung into action without hesitation. Or contemplation. 

“Who’s your friend, mom,” I continue, “You gotta tell me something…”

She crushes her cigarette with her heels. “Elias Shinra.” And my eyes go wide.

“The borough president?” I recoil. “How do you know him?”

She looks at me. And I see in the softening lines of how she used to be-a little girl with so much uncertainty in her gray eyes. There’s a slight quiver in her lips; an internal battle to unload some of her past onto me. And I’m not surprised she knows Elias Shinra. Staten Island, the fourteen mile island no one ever leaves, surrounded by straight jackets for bridges. Everyone knows everyone. Too involved in everyone’s business. And I recall bitter words tumbled from those same lips when he went from Councilman Shinra to Borough President Shinra, and wonder now how she could now call him  _ friend _ . 

“I probably shouldn’t tell you all of this but…” she huffs, but then softens her voice to almost a whisper as she offers up a piece of her past. “Opa...has never been a good person. And he hated having girls and took it out on us everyday. Cecelia was like his little assistant, when she wasn’t kissing his ass she was getting me in trouble. And Cynthia just put up with it until she developed her own addiction to vicodin. But me, I fought back. I wasn’t gonna take his shit; and he punished me for it.

“I ran away so many times. Just looking for a way out- anything. And I...met Elias at a Christmas party. I had just turned seventeen and he was...thirty.” She groans, “I knew it was wrong but I thought it was my only out; being a mistress to a lawyer from a powerful family. He treated me fine…” She trails off for several seconds- as if finding new definitions for  _ fine _ . 

And maybe  _ fine _ doesn’t mean good.

“He...never raised a hand to me. Bought me clothes and school books. I didn’t realize how...wrong the whole thing was until I was older but...when you are told you’re trash for your entire life you begin to believe that’s all you deserve.” She reaches over to me, gently brushing her fingers through my hair. A sad smile on her face. She used to do this when I was younger and the kids who tormented rendered me on the verge of tears- that would hold up in my chest because of that common phrase I’ve heard for my entire life. Her comforting touch was the only time I felt safe…

“He helped me get away from my father. Not by any legal means of course...but...they had a long  _ talk _ and whatever Elias said was convincing. My parents signed away their rights to him.”

We both cringe. “Fuck, ma...that’s…”

“Sick? Yeah, but...it was better than getting back handed or called a slut everyday after school. Elias got me my own place, a car, bought me food. He was even going to pay for my college but…” her voice trails off and her hand falls to her side. Her beautiful eyes crash to the empty space between us. “I got pregnant.” My heart stops. “And I made a choice...a difficult choice but the right one. Elias...supported it but I think it was more because the scandal that would have followed.

“We broke it off sometime later. He was married but he told me the marriage was terrible and he ‘wanted out’,” she does air quotes with a roll of her eyes, “She got pregnant right after my procedure. So I guess shit wasn’t that bad.”

When she brings her eyes back to me, she looks like my mother again. Small signs of aging. A woman who has been through much in her privileged life that she’s drowned with alcohol and pills. She plays with my hair again, and I start getting embarrassed at the affection even if it offers me needed comfort. “I worked two jobs to put myself through college and couch hopped. I wanted nothing to do with Elias or my father ever again. But it was incredibly hard to maintain that strength. I fell in with a bad crowd. Did some things I’m not proud of- but it was all better, I assure you, than living with opa and oma. Elias occasionally would try to get me back. He would find me at clubs, get a driver to bring me back to wherever I was staying. I fooled myself into believing he was the embodiment of romance. It took me too long to realize I was desperate for affection, some kind of positive reinforcement. A grown man saw that and manipulated me.”

She lets out a distressing sigh with a gentle shake of her head. “I know what it’s like to be rejected by your parents and the outcome of such neglect. If I can prevent another child from going through what I went through...I will.

“And Elias owes me one,” she continues with a grimace, “I called him and we listened to your message. It was hard to make out, but we heard enough. He doesn’t think it’s enough to get a case going. You did record Don without his knowledge and then black mailed him.” She shoots me a disappointed glare and I look away with a blush. “But he’s going to talk to him man to man. Father to father. Same conversation he gave Opa.”

I can tell from the way her eyes tremble, glassed over, the painful effort it took to make the phone call to ex. Let down her guard and ask for help. Not just for her son but for her son’s boyfriend, who she knows so little of. Just enough. Enough to make the chip in her armor worth it. 

But I don’t feel good about it either. 

I can sense her disgust in having to seek assistance from a Shinra. Like thousands of spiders crawling up my spine. I shift in my seat and tear my eyes from her. I realize the water in my lungs return, or my mouth fuses shut. I don’t know what to say to her- the urge to apologize gathers in the back of my throat but I remember Reno scolding me earlier for the excessive sorrys I throw up when I don’t know what to say. Or what to do. Believing my lack of comforting words is something I must regret. 

But I wish she didn’t need to put herself in uncomfortable positions when she’s so newly sober and addiction just waiting for a reason to claim her.

“Why are you doing all of this?” My question feels like a bullet in a gun; but I can’t imagine anyone willing going out of their way to help someone they’ve seen a handful of times with a clear head. Reno interacted with my father more than her. Dad often saying he’s just going to adopt Reno at some point since he’s practically living with us. But my mom would offer muted acknowledgments through hazy eyes. And I don’t want her to say just because of me...that’s not secure enough. How long before he overstays his welcome on that ticket? 

She must have read the way my eyes narrowed with untrust, because she says in a tone both kind but stern: “Because it’s the right thing to do.” 

That simple. 

“I watched his father when Palmer so eloquently spread the vicious rumor about you two,” she curls her lips into a forceful frown with a dramatic shiver, “My dad had that same look every time I did something not to his standards. Then, seeing him outside with you...all bruised up...he needed to get out of that situation” 

“What if they don’t let him…”

The thought pricks my chest like a needle. I flick my cigarette onto the floor without complaint from my mother, whose silence buries me in doubt. But the reality our endeavors would be fruitless still exists. 

And what’s the alternative anyway? His family disowns him so easily? 

My mother rests her head on my shoulder, her arm rubbing my back in an attempt to crack the metaphorical boulders resting on my back. Like the weight of too many tragedies.

“We’ll figure it out,” and she sounds so assured, I buy it mostly because I need something to hold on to when I go back up there and face him. No use in both of us buried in melancholy. “He means a lot to you.” 

I nod. No use in pretending anymore. 

“How long…” she starts but stops as if nervous to open that jar. But I know what she means. 

“We’ve been together since late October.”

“Wow, six months huh? That’s forever when you’re sixteen.” There’s a hint of amusement in her tone, but not mocking. “You love him?”

“Absolutely.” 

She pulls away for a moment so we can share a look; scanning each other’s faces in silent discussion. My warnings- if he is forced to leave, I’m going to set this entire city on fire. I swear to fuck. And I know there’s motherly logic in the lines of her lips that remain shut. That I’m going to do no such thing, but the consequences will be devastating. And if he means that much to me..

She rests her head back on my shoulder- and I forgot how small she is sometimes because her presence commands the room- and I lay mine on hers. She squeezes me with her arm around my back. And I never felt so...wanted...and loved before. And I promise myself to always remember this feeling on those days where I don’t want to keep moving. When I forget the utterly destroyed look on her face when she tied towels around my wrists and repeated the same phrase until it burned into my brain. Until everything went black. 

“Thank you...mom.” I whisper. And I mean that statement in so many different ways..

Another squeeze like she’s forcing me back together. 

“He can sleep in your room tonight, but he moves into the guest room tomorrow.” 

“Ugh,” I move away, “Really? Come on…”

“Smoking is one thing. Having your boyfriend  _ sleep in your bed _ is a completely other thing.”

“Mom, come on,” I try to give her an innocent smile, “You’re really gonna make him sleep in a different room when he’s going through all of this?”

“Don’t use this to be fresh with your boyfriend, Cloud Strife,” she shoves me rough on the shoulder, “It’s completely inappropriate to have teenagers sleeping together in your house. I can’t be that much of a terrible parent!”

“It’s not terrible!” I laugh when she glares at me, “ _ You’re not like the other moms. You’re a cool mom.” _

She narrows her eyes, “Watch it, or you’re sleeping in the guest room and I’ll give Reno your room. Take this little win I’m giving you, and be  _ grateful _ .”

“Fine,” I roll my eyes like an ungrateful brat. But she doesn’t lose her grin. 

And for the first time, in a long time, I have hope for tomorrow. For the future. 

* * *

The rest of the night passed with an unnerving lack of chaos. My mother tried getting Reno downstairs to eat something, but he refused and hid in my bedroom for hours just staring at the ceiling. My concern for him only grew as I watched him struggle to hold in the tears that so desperately wanted to to spring from his eyes. I offered him bursts of privacy; and felt the cold reaction when I left and he didn’t argue. My mother’s only advice was to stay with him, be a shoulder he could cry on when he’s ready, and let her handle the outside shit. But the unknown wrecked my nerves. And I found myself engaged in a standoff with Tylenol PMs like they held all the answers. And for a minute… a selfish minute...I considered taking three so I could fall asleep and not think-

But I closed the medicine cabinet instead. Because I can’t weigh myself down, battle sleep paralysis demons, and arise with a murky swap of a mind, when he’s life continues to spiral out of control. 

We went to bed; he didn’t even question if my mother would allow such a thing. But his sleep was terrible. The tossing and turning kept me in a lucid state. Eyes opened every time he huffed and rolled onto his back to fight with the demons in the ceiling. On high alert when he attempted to sneak out with my pack of cigarettes but too tired to will my body to move. And when I did, and I tried to creep down the stairs, I heard him in the kitchen with my mother. Just their voices, a soft volume. But I realized maybe he didn’t need the supportive silent boyfriend at that moment. Maybe he needed a mother figure, who understood more than me, to bring him some comfort. So I left them there, my chest heavy when I heard a strangled  _ fuck this shit  _ coughed through a sob. And I waited for him to return to his side of the bed, eyes closed, and held him tightly- pulling him so his back rested against my chest. 

Only then did I feel his body relax, his breathing even, and sleep claimed the both of us. 

When I wake up, he’s leaning against my window; the sun bursting through like an explosion of spring and illuminates his skin, sets fire to his hair. But his eyes are storm clouds filled with mayhem. His lips a thin straight line as he seems to glare at the budding weeping willow and her branches that dare to enter the room.

“Hey,” I call out, but he doesn’t stir. I try to think of words to say that aren’t redundant or unhelpful. But I got nothing and it makes me feel so much worse. 

“Someone’s here,” he responds without looking at me, “came in about a minute ago.”

I sit up quickly, “Did they look familiar?” 

He shrugs, “Dunno, can’t see from up here.” 

I swing off the bed and just as I’m about to head towards the door, it opens with a crack. My mother pokes her head in catuiously, her bright grays looking between the two of us- Reno finally turning to acknowledge the new presence in the room. 

“Hey,” she forces a strained smile, “Reno, someone’s here to talk to you…”

“Just talk?” he snaps.

“Yes,” she assures him, “Just talking.”

He brings his eyes to me, riddled with torment. “Can he come?”

“That’s up to you, sweetheart,” she offers. 

Without another word he jumps off the bed and I take his silence as confirmation I should follow. He walks like he’s about to enter the ring. Shoulders back. Eyes pointed in antagony. Head held up despite the weight of this situation attempting to drag him down. His motivation and resilience in this moment is admirable. And I am impressed by his stature, but worry when the facade crumbles. What would be left to put back together?

We’re shaped by our trauma. Cut down. Rebuilt. With an extra layer to protect us- knowledge. 

Sometimes that knowledge makes us cold-

And we either desire the warmth of another body till we forget who we are- or our heart freezes. And I think I have an idea of which category I fall in...and which he’s falling into. So we have to decide whether we want that trauma to define us? Or become a footnote in our history. 

We enter the kitchen, my mother leading the way. Standing near the sliding door, a man in his early forties with short glistening black hair and stern smile. He regards us with a quick nod as my mother went over to thank him again for coming. 

“This is Veld Numura,” she introduces with a quavering smile, “a good friend of Mr. Shinra. Veld, my son Cloud and Reno…”

He clears his throat, his voice deceptively soothing. “Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.”

“So?” Reno bites, hands shoved in pockets and leaning against the wall with an impatience scowl. “What do you have to do with this?”

Veld lets pass an annoyed sigh. “I’m Elias Shinra’s attorney, he asked me to handle these next steps. Your parents aren’t happy with what transpired last night. President Shinra managed to calm your father and mother down-”

“Psh,” he sputters, “ Oh I’m sure they were  _ just devastated _ .”

“No,” Veld corrects, “they were enraged by your actions.”

Reno doesn’t react to that statement; his eyes falling half open and bored. Like he’s had this conversation before; performed this routing.  _ What else is new? _

My mom, maybe noticing the tension in the air takes control of the conversation. “What are his parents planning on doing?”

Veld tears his eyes from Reno. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit!” Reno laughs, “No way they ain’t trying to send me to some Jesus Camp.”

”Your parents were going to call the police,” the attorney responds coolly, “They said you’re violent and attacked your father unprovoked. President Shinra convinced them otherwise.”

“And what’s the  _ otherwise,”  _ the red-head mocks back. 

His attitude feels like that of a kicked dog. Ready to rip apart anyone who throws even a muted glare in his direction. His eyes like two balls of white hot flame. The way his lips flick like the switchblade now back in my nightstand. He’s so fucking angry he can’t even get out of his own way right now. But Veld doesn’t react; and the eyes I originally felt cold and unnerving soften with pity. 

“Your parents don’t want you to come home. They feel your ‘deviant’ behavior will harm your little brother,” a visible frown on the man's face when the sentence leaves his lips- and Reno’s smirk slowly dies when the words reach his ears. Then, much like the morning covered in snow, realization cracks him in the face and he lets out a throaty chuckle with the shake of his head. 

“They want you to stay away from them,” he continues, “and they want no more trouble- from either of you.

“Going through the courts to make the separation official is a long, drawn out process that would further cast shame upon them. They are willing to move forward with just mutual understanding between the two parties: they will rescind their parental responsibilities towards you and they won’t press charges for attacking your father.”

He gives us a moment to juggle his words- my mom, with her face in her fist processing the information, shooting Reno an empathetic look. But I want to scream. In certain words, they essentially admitted desperately wanting their older son out of the house. Away from their perfect vision of a family. He’s doing  _ them _ a favor by leaving and in return they won’t pull a bullshit charge on him. The fucking audacity. And everyone, the adults act like they’ve been robbed of their tongues. And Reno just stands there with a blank face; like he can’t tell if this is good news or bad. If he should be a furious flame or devastated. 

“So,” Reno raises an eyebrow, “They ain’t comin’ for me or anything?”

“No,” Veld grimaces, “And they couldn’t force you unless they have proof you are a danger to yourself and others, which they don’t. This is the cleanest break you can get until your eighteen.”

A rancorous shake of his head. “Sweet,” his tone as bitter as dandelion leaves and a sardonic smile that looks more like cracked glass, “So that’s it? It’s over? I’m fucking free?” a deranged look as he scans Veld’s face. Then the painful, affirming, nod. And Reno clenches every single muscle in his body with the sharpest inhale. “Awesome. So if it’s alright with y’all, I’m going to fuck off back to his room then since,” he throws his hands in the air as he back out of the kitchen. “Well, fuck me, yo.”

And he stomps out, up the stairs to my room, where the slamming of the door shakes the entire house. Glass rattles but doesn’t break. 

Veld turns to my mother, “Think about what I said about emergency guardianship; it looks like they're open to that option.” And she nods sadly, before thanking him for his time. “Good to see you again, Claudia.” He acknowledges me swiftly and sees himself out of the house- acting as if he’s been here plenty of times before. And I wonder if he has for a second, before I grant my mother my attention.

Her eyes glued to the ceiling as if trying to communicate telepathically to Reno. And her face tells me everything; how she’s reliving her past through the eyes of a teenage boy. Outcomes so different yet the same. And I wonder if she’s having second thoughts about helping him. There was no outward discussion about him staying with us, but she alluded to the possibility of an extended stay last night. Maybe that was the adrenaline talking. 

“What...now?” I ask.

“I’ll handle the adult stuff,” she sighs and dances her eyes to me. “You just make him comfortable? No one feels good after this and if they do, then it must have been that bad, right? All we can do is make him feel...at home.”

I recall when this was the best case scenario. So, why does it feel so tragic?

We exchange a tense look. She still wrestles with her internal conflict, but she’s done sharing her plans with her sixteen-year-old son. And I am actually relieved that the burden has been lifted- I’ve missed the reckless abandon of adolescence. So I take my leave upstairs, see if he wants to be left alone or will welcome the company. 

In my room, back at the window, he sits with his head leaning against the molding and eyes focused on the bright blue sky. The sun hits the side of his face, casting shadows of branches along his features. He looks like he’s on the verge of complete collapse. Held together by just his rage. Four stages of grief rush along his face- denial, bargaining, depression, anger- like a retracting wave crashing onto the beach.

“You gonna stand there like a fucking creep all day?” he snaps without moving his eyes. 

“Don’t know if you want to be left alone?” I counter softly. 

“It’s your fucking room, yo, do whatever the fuck you want.”

He’s not angry at me. I know that. I recall the week of Christmas break, when he was full of misguided aggression, it leaked onto our time together. So I try to be patient. Take a breath. Recognize he can’t direct his anger towards his parents. That he’s been abandoned by them. And all he has left…

I join him on the bed, back up against my poster. His eyes quiver but never move. I find myself drawn, though, by how the spring sun sparks his electric blues. The different hues swirl like a kaleidoscope. And while he occupies the space next to me, he’s far away. I consider taking his hand; but his arms are crossed on the sill, hands tucked away. I try to open my mouth to offer some kind of support, but I anticipate the biting remark. Silence falls over us; just the wind blowing through the nearly bare branches of the weeping willow breaks the tension. Birds returning home from winter sing across the sky; louder than the hum of airplanes traveling from Newark.

I think about my dad coming home from his business trip in a couple of days. He left here with hope for our family unit. Now he’ll come home to a son about to be expelled from school because of his sexuality and a new house guest who has been his son’s boyfriend for six months. And yet, all those changes pale in comparison to the complete uproot of Reno’s life. I scan _ my _ bedroom, the one he woke up in this morning in clothes that don’t belong to him. All my posters that adorn the wall and ceilings that showcase all my favorite pop culture references. My computer, with the whirling colors for a screen saver, on a desk with a cork bulletin board. Home to pictures of friends, ticket stubs to concerts. Sixteen years of my life accumulated into this room. This familiar warmth for me, something chilling for him- none of his personality lingers in here. Nothing here belongs to him. 

He’s free but at what cost?

“Why does it feel this shitty?” Reno chokes through his words, curling his lips inward. “This is what I wanted right?”

I remember the first night he told me about his parents. Sitting in this same position. And his words swollen with grief as he mourned his parents' rejection. How all he wanted was for them to feel a sense of pride. His hope to accomplish something so great it would overshadow their shame.

I shake my head, “No, this isn’t what you wanted.” He looks over with bloodshot eyes from the tears he refuses to let fall. But they gather and he just barely holds on. As he reflects on his own words. And the tragic truth behind them. “You wanted them to accept you.”

He tries to clench his jaw to stop the rogue wave of emotions from crashing along his face, but two hot bitter tears fall down his cheeks without permission as he nods. “Yeah,” his voice cracks, “I guess you’re right.”

I was always taught the five stages of grief ends with acceptance; but I think it’s more of an oblong path than a straight line that circles back to the beginning. And maybe in this moment he accepts he wanted more of his parents than they were willing to give. Now there’s a new knowledge he must mourn. But this time, I can’t imagine letting him travel this road alone. I grab his arm and he doesn’t fight me when I pull him against me. And he doesn’t push me away when I wrap my arms around him. Caressing his cold arms as he crumbles silently in my embrace.

All I hope for now, he’ll realize how loved and accepted he is here. And he won’t be alone rebuilding his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really feel like I haven't updated in forever. I'm so exhausted with work lol. I hope everyone is doing well! If you pop over to my tumblr I have a photo that I commissioned for this story. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your support! Let me know what you all think about this chapter!


	38. Storm Cloud Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On a cobweb afternoon  
>  In a room full of emptiness  
> By a freeway I confess  
> I was lost in the pages  
> Of a book full of death  
> Reading how we'll die alone  
> And if we're good, we'll lay to rest  
> Anywhere we want to go  
> In your house I long to be  
> Room by room patiently  
> I'll wait for you there  
> Like a stone  
> I'll wait for you there  
> Alone._  
> -"Like a Stone" by Audioslave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW  
> Suicide Mention

Reno silently fell apart in my arms, for only several devastating minutes. Then picked himself off me, told me he was done and declared he was moving on with his life. He pushed himself to start rebuilding what he’s lost. And I admired his strength, but worried he was overcompensating to bury the hurt he felt so viscerally, lock it away somewhere and forget to deal with it. Become cold. Resentful. Seek out dangerous outlets.

But maybe I’m projecting. 

He decided he would take over the spare bedroom next to mine, despite the balcony overlooking his former yard- giving him a perfect view of his family dismantling his old life. And he waved off my mother’s protests and my offerings to switch. And refused to continue the argument. Mother recruited Veld one last time to negotiate the acquisition of Reno’s personal items. He couldn’t wear my clothes forever as apparently, according to him, I lack style. And while Mr. Numura discussed the release of Reno’s items, my mother insisted on giving him money to decorate his new living quarters to his liking. 

Something he rejected immediately. 

And in private lamented he had no idea, at all, how he would even begin to set up his new living space.

_ I don’t even know what I like anymore _ . 

Hinting his wounds run deep. 

Veld came through with half a garbage bag of clothes. And just as my mother was going to argue, Reno confirmed all he owned existed in this black plastic sack. And that admission kicked my mother into high gear, shoving material items in his face in an effort to heal those internal bruises with money. A learned behavior. One I recalled manifesting in a two week trip to Disney World the weekend I got out of the hospital. And the happiest place on earth was no match for a depressed fourteen-year-old still struggling with a near death experience and being on so many meds I felt like detached from reality. And now, like then, my mother remains willfully oblivious that her attempts were not working. 

But Reno’s polite about it at least. Weak smiles everytime she “finds something” in the garage: like a T.V free of scratches, and a computer that looks suspiciously as the one in the basement, or the see-through telephone, and the lava lamp  _ obviously _ from the late seventies and not from  _ Spencers _ . He gave up on pushing back everytime she appeared. She’s a force. But I saw the way his cheeks burned with every gift. How he tried to hide his clenched fits in the pockets of his sweatpants. The charity adding insult. And she only paused when I begged her in private to stop.

The spare room became his, but I still found him in my bed the following night. Eyes still red and shot. The silence only broken by his breathing and  _ Lost _ on the television screen. We made small talk during the commercials. He growled at how he needed to get back to school to get his working papers. He needs a job. He can’t rely on people the rest of his life. He’ll probably have to drop out of school- and that’s when I stopped the conversation with a scathing: 

_ No you aren’t. _

And his glare didn’t go unnoticed.  _ Says who? _

I returned the tense look while my mother’s story cascades through my mind. And how, despite her efforts coming off strong, she’s trying to keep him from falling into the same hole she spent decades trying to crawl from.  _ You have an opportunity to change your life. Live it the way you want it. Does dropping out of school fall into that plan? _

And he bit his tongue with a grunt. 

Discussion concluded. And I know I don’t exactly have the right to tell him how to live his life. 

I’m not even sure where our relationship stands. 

I figured he was pissed and would leave once the episode concluded, but he remained in my bed. Fell asleep with me to  _ Aqua Teen Hunger Force _ , lights on, door open. And I guess my mom decided to give us a break for another night. I was becoming spoiled with waking up next to him. I savored this last morning with me roused awake still in his arms, knowing my father would be home tomorrow. These shared moments coming to an end, for now. 

All my friends have called. Concerned for my well being after the rumors spread through the hallways of the school that Reno and I had been caught fucking in the bathroom. Then tried to kill Kadaj, Yazoo, and Loz who happened to discover our transgressions. I denounced the rumors, of course. Cid suggested we should have done it for shits and giggles while Barret, on the three way call, yelled at him to stop talking about my sex life. I didn’t tell them about my new house guest; not my place…

That didn’t stop Tifa from reaching out on behalf of Rude, who inquired about his cousin's whereabouts. And when I told Reno about Rude’s concern, he scoffed, unable to believe anyone in his family actually cared. 

Tifa and I attempted a conversation. Strained. She expressed remorse for what happened. But her wounds still pulse. And these following events further confirm the vulgar truth; I used her. The simple statement sharp as a knife. And I tried to say I missed her without using those words, all attempts to avoid giving her a sliver of hope. I told her I wish we could hang out soon. Maybe she should come over with Rude, it might make Reno happy to see his cousin’s loyalty in person. 

She fed me well practiced lies. 

And let her hang up the phone. 

I have bigger issues I need to settle. 

We continue to put the finishing touches to his room. He folds his clothes and places them neatly in the drawers. While mocking me for not knowing how to do my own laundry. A hot blush warms my cheeks, only saved when I spot his smile. A real one. That I’ve missed for weeks. I lean against the wall next to him, opening up an envelope of pictures I found buried on my desk, under papers from school I hardly gave a second glance. 

“What’s that?” Reno asks.

“I think Aerith left these for me a while ago, I just noticed them.”

“Mhm,” he sighs and I notice there’s a pause in his movements. I pull my attention from the pictures to him. He’s holding up a Tom Brady jersey. 

And I’m brought back to Super Bowl Sunday this year. Patriots vs Eagles. Another weekend Reno and I spent playing house, waking up in each other’s arms, without interruption. And despite not even close to being sick of each other, Reno debated on whether or not he should stay for the game. We throw a huge party every year with a bunch of my dad’s high school friends, some of their younger kids show up, and all my friends come over. The New Dorp crew a definite yes, while Cid, Barret, and Aerith were only allowed to come over because their parents trusted mine for some reason. And Reno didn’t think it would be smart for him to still be here; that’s how rumors get started. But just when he was about to leave through the sliding door, my father intercepted us, holding a bag decorated with sparkling  _ Happy Birthdays _ . 

_ A little birdie told me it’s your birthday next week!”  _ He handed Reno the bag and then looked at us confused.  _ You aren’t leaving before the game right? This is a very special holiday in the Strife house! You can’t leave!? _

And Reno had opened the gift. The same jersey he holds currently in his hands. And when he tried to protest the offering, my father brushed him off.  _ Everyone wears a jersey during the Superbowl and you told me you were thinking of jumping ship to the Patriots anyway _ . 

My father acted like it was nothing. But I saw the way Reno scanned the lining of the navy shirt, the red threading in the shape of the number 12. Every Sunday, the occasional Mondays, and post-season Saturdays, the three of us watched football. Made small bets. Ate our weight in wings and pizza. Reno wasn’t a guest, but an expected part of the trio. My father’s gift became more than just a birthday present; but acceptance into a boys club, even if he wore a different team. And Reno couldn’t deny the invitation, and threw the jersey on over his white long sleeve. And when Aerith came over she took a picture of us leaning on opposite sides of the threshold in the kitchen, trying desperately to look as nonchalant as possible.

Now, as he holds Tom Brady’s number in his hand, I pull out the photo of us- stealing a look with cautious smiles in our jerseys. A shared moment of bliss in a sea of wandering eyes. 

“I’m a Pats fan,” he declares, “that I know…”

I walk over to his new desk and put the picture of us on the cork board with a tac. “So, Pats fan and Yankee fan, huh? Seems almost contradictory.” 

“What can I say? I like winners…” he hangs up the jersey in the closet, next to  _ my  _ hoodie and plaid shirt. He comes up next to me, leaning over as I move through the rest of the photos. Nights that seemed decades ago. Both groups of friends partying together at Vinnys, sitting around the fire pit mid-laughter. Or outside 7-11, or in Tifa’s basement. A great picture of the two of us chugging beer before the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade- and I make a mental note to frame this one. A picture of us playing Beer Pong at Halloween, our eyes giving us away as we stare hopelessly into each other. And I can’t believe no one caught on then…

“None of this is normal,” he says suddenly. And I knit my brows together before looking over at him. He’s staring at the pictures in my hand, but his expression is tense and far. And I try to make sense of his statement before he brings his eyes to me. Close enough I could feel his breath. “You know…”

“What do you mean?” I counter. 

“This,” he turns to face the rest of the room. Across from us, the black rod iron bed with pale green sheets and too many throw pillows, dressed up for guests who never visit. Matching wooden nightstands on each side, one with the lava lamp and unplugged telephone. A dresser with mirror, cleared of abandoned papers and picture frames of family we no longer speak to. The grey walls bare. Untouched. There’s a white door that leads to his own private bathroom, current home of a fresh toothbrush and set of towels, and a glass one hidden by black curtains that opens up to the small balcony

Reno leans against his desk, my mother made us bring up from the basement. The computer with an empty screen saver. Never used. 

And I want to ask if he has another option. But that would just twist the knife. 

He never felt close enough to Tseng and Reeve to reach out. And Rude must fall in line with the rest of the family, or end up in the same precarious situation. 

And I don’t want him to feel he’s forced to live here…

He’s not trapped. The situation dire but not unbearable; he can make this work. 

“Okay, it’s not...normal.” I reluctantly agree, he takes a seat next to him. He folds his arms over his chest with a huff, but I run my nails up and down his back. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t push me off. He moves into my touch. And I continue with forced conviction. “We don’t have to pretend that it is. But it’s going to be okay…”

Reno nods, trying to hide the sadness in his eyes with a weak smile. “You sure you’re cool with me stayin’ here?”

“Yeah...of course I am,” I stop rubbing his back, “I told you no matter what, you could come here.”

We share a look. One that feels like the spring wind, even with all the uncertainty hanging in the air. And my heart jumps when I see the smirk as he runs his fingers through my hair. His eyes falling over the lines of my face like he’s memorizing every curve, and flaw, and scattered freckles. He battles against his desire to relax. I see it written in the sparkles of blue that shine against the orange artificial light. His shoulders tense, but lips twitch to a soft smile. One I mimic. Drawn close as he caresses blond locks. 

I feel suspended in the air. 

And all I can remember is the first time I battled with these eyes. How I pretended to be so concerned with how he grazed them along my body, as if I wasn’t also taking in every eccentric feature. 

The way I shut down at the intrusion; so unfamiliar. Almost dangerous.

And now, all I want is to look at him like this all the time. 

How far we’ve come in such a short time- how my memories before him fade like watercolors out in the sun. He’s clear. As clear as the photographs I rest on the desk which thankfully document the beginning of our time together.

The stolen glances. Drench with a need. 

“Heh,” Reno exhales, his breath tickling my lips and pulling me like a magnetic. “Who would have thought?”

An unstoppable force.

And an immovable object.

Collided and burst into dust. 

And the gravity from mutual attraction pulled us back together. 

We almost close the space between us- something we haven’t done in a week- but the sound of approaching footsteps halts our advances. And we take a few strained steps away, his hand falling to his side after ensuring he touched every inch of skin on the way down. 

My mother announces herself with a dramatic, “knock knock,” as she pushes the half open door completely ajar. I sigh in relief when I see she comes bearing no gifts. Instead, she skips inside with a sly smirk on her face as if she caught us in some scandalous position. Taking a look around at the bare room with a nod of approval. 

“Things coming together, huh?” She asks. 

“Gettin’ there,” Reno shrugs, “got all I really need anyway.” He drops his gaze to his shoes and I see the guard built back up. “Thank you again for lettin’ me stay for a bit.”

We all know that a  _ bit _ is more ambiguous than he would like, but my mother offers him a kind look as she takes a seat on the bed. “Oh, it’s no problem at all! It’s nice having someone else in the house.”

“What about your husband? Still gotta run it by him, right?” 

She scoffs, “He has no choice in the matter. The house is in my name. If he has objections to  _ anything _ ,” she throws me a look, “then he can find another place to live.”

“Savage,” Reno remarks. 

My mother puts her hands on her lap with a pleased smile on her face. And I admire her dedication to her son’s boy...friend, over her husband. And maybe that’s the experience talking. But this brings up another issue, one I have completely forgotten about in the chaos over the last few days. My dad is literally the only one left who doesn’t know I’m gay. And there’s really no way to hide it anymore

“What are we going to tell dad?” I grumble, now with my arms over my chest as my stomach sinks to the floor. “About everything…”

“Oh don’t worry!” She responds in a sugar sweet tone that makes me gag. “I’ll handle your father about Reno. We don’t have to tell him everything. Just the basics. Reno got kicked out and he’s going to stay with us.” She huffs when she sees how my face crumbles into doubt. “Sweety, your father isn’t going to throw a kid out on the street. And he won’t ask any more questions than is necessary.”

I shift, “Okay…”

She frowns, “you don’t have to tell him anything you aren’t comfortable with…”

“Do I have a choice?”

I’m suspended from school. My apparent best friend has been kicked out of his place. There’s so many why’s that follow those statements, there’s no way we’d be able to hide it from him. And doesn’t he deserve an explanation? How am I supposed to heal that broken relationship if I don’t give him at least the whole story. I know my mother feels the same, even if she won’t vocalize it, and when I throw Reno a look he bites his lip- like he’s also struggling with his own words. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “you both have been robbed of something very special in your lives. But you have a choice here- this can be your choice. I will support  _ the both of  _ you in anything you decide.”

I appreciate her words. The kindness in her voice lulls me into a tentative sense of security. And I feel almost selfish for having any doubt in my parents. But when I look at Reno, expecting a perturbed glint in his eyes, he’s features are soft and understanding. It doesn’t matter how accepting my parents may come off, there’s always a possibility my father wouldn’t be able to look past this...disappointment. 

“It’s gonna be fine,” my mother continues, “we don’t have to decide anything now. He isn’t coming home un-”

The front door being thrown open with a resounding quake cuts my mother off. And she groans out loud when my father’s “ _ Honey, I’m home!”  _ echoes throughout the empty halls. Reno and I snap at eyes to Claudia: she rubs her face, lamenting that she  _ knew he was up to something _ and  _ he sucks at surprises _ and  _ fuck his timing is fucking perfect _ . And I know my eyes grow into round saucers, my heart starts ripping at my chest- times up. 

She rises from the bed, holding her hands up to try to calm the rising storm. “Everything’s chill,” she assures us with a forced smile as she slowly backs out of the room, “It’s all gonna be alright. I’ll just explain to your father the new situation and we’ll just...take it from there!” She exclaims with a deranged nod. Without waiting for our response, she charges downstairs, screaming at my father that she’ll be right there.

Their voices fade into the distance. 

And I wish I could evaporate. 

But Reno reminds me of my physical existence when he moves in front of me with a curious expression on his face. 

“Yo, you good?” He asks, “don’t know how it’s possible, but you got paler.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Like you’re fucking pale as shit to begin with. But now you’re translucent, Casper.”

I grunt in response and look away. My mind racing through the dialog I would spill to my father. 

“Your ma’s right,” he continues, “you don’t have to say anything-”

“He’s going to want to know why I’m suspended.” I respond blankly. 

“Cause our school is full of fucking assholes?” 

I clench my fists and grit my teeth at his tone. 

“You’re calm…” I observe mockingly and he shrugs in response. 

“Because your dad’s a chill dude…and I really don’t think he’s gonna care.”

I want to argue. But compared to his situation, I can’t imagine my father- even if this is not the route he expected for his son- reacting so cold. And I try to remember that as I wait for my mother to call us down. But my mind rushes to the worst case scenario-

Like foul balls crashing through windows. 

Bashing against my head. 

“I could, you know, tell your dad about me,” Reno continues, “see how he reacts to that news.”

“He’ll know right away then…” I murmur as my chest twists. 

The snicker that escapes his lips snaps my eyes to his form. “Your dad ain’t that quick.” And I know he isn’t trying to be an asshole, when I see his amused smirk. His fingers graze mine. And he takes a step closer. “Whatever you decide, you know got your back, pretty boy.”

I shake my head but my fingers move against his- meeting his touch with sparks of lightning. He looks so relaxed...“You’re...concerningly well adjusted…” I inquire.

“Ha!” He exclaims with a dramatic laugh that bellows in his throat, “Nah, all this trauma is going to manifest in an _epic_ quarter life crisis meltdown that I am definitely looking forward to.”

“Shit...good to know…?

He entangles our fingers, “Figure I’ll give you a heads up so you’re prepared.”

I fall silent and just enjoy the thought of making it to twenty-five. 

And I wonder if he knew we were destined to break all those fruitless rules he established. And if I really wanted to dwell on whether I was worth it or not, I could. But I feel at ease. When his skin brushes against mine. I ride this wave, especially when our foreheads meet; his eyes drill into mine. 

“We got this,” he smirks.

I push forth a small smile. That I try to hold onto when my mother's voice leaks through the crack in the door:  _ Boys, can you come down _ . And before Reno breaks the contact, he flicks his nose against mine as one more reminder; I’m not walking through this alone either. 

Downstairs, my parents stand in the kitchen- the designated conference area. Mom next to her husband, throwing the two of us the most reassuring looks she could muster through these circumstances. Dad has jet lag splashed across his face. Heavy bags under his usual bright eyes. His unkempt blonde hair glistening in the warm white light drenching the room. His arms are folded over his chest, hiding the  _ Fordham University _ logo; but his brows are creased with confusion- not aggression- as he looks before then two of us before stopping on Reno. 

“Nevada,” and my father’s voice is flushed with concern, “How are you doing buddy?”

“Swell,” Reno rests his body against the threshold with another tense shrug.

My parents frown as a few minutes of silence ticks by. My mother had relayed the bulk of the information; Reno’s been kicked out of his house, the reason vague enough that my dad doesn’t question it further with the red-head. And I guess he wouldn’t; from day one, Reno’s been dropping hints like breadcrumbs that his home was a toxic pool of neglectful parenting. Over our house every weekend, rarely returning to the mansion on the opposite side of the fence. Dinners on weeknights sitting on counters. My dad had eventually stopped asking if Reno’s parents were missing him at dinner, when Reno bit back that they  _ didn’t miss him at all.  _

My dad lets out a huff. “What else do you need us to do?”

And those aren’t just words without weight. The kind of empty sentiments people spew when they run out of things to say- or they want to feel better about themselves. My father means them. His swirl of blue-green eyes ignited. Rigid from the injustice that befallen one of his own. And Reno blushes before dropping his eyes to the floor. 

“I’m good,” he mutters. 

“Anything you need,” my dad reaffirms, “We’re here for you. You can stay here as long as you want…”

Reno whispers a  _ thank you _ like it strains his jaw muscles until they snap. I know this can’t be easy, needing help from basically strangers- and I can’t ignore the juxtaposition of non-biological parents showing more genuine concern than his birth givers. The sting, like a bitter poison, curls his lips. And the seriousness in my father; voice is jarring. Almost alien. The usual facetious tone missing and it drapes the kitchen in an awkward silence. And it makes me miss normal.

“And I’m hearing you’re both suspended?” He inquires, his tone neutral and I can’t decide if that’s worse than obvious anger. 

“I told him what happened already,” my mother interjects quickly, “Some jackass kids tried attacking Cloud and Reno stepped in; but of course the school is too concerned with their image and don’t want to deal with the three scumbags.”

_ Way to make me sound pathetic _ , I think with a grimace. 

“Yeah, I get that Cee,” my dad grumbles, “I just don’t get why they went after him  _ for no reason _ .” 

I kind of resent the implication in his tone- like I would do something to warrant a three on one fight- but I swallow back the truth gathering in the back of my throat. The words taste like the metal of a knife. Like hot iron on my tongue. And I found my lips are sealed shut despite my father looking at me for some kind of explanation I can’t give. Even...even if a part of me wants to dump the whole story onto the kitchen floor. 

“Cause he talks so much shit!” Reno jumps in with a laugh that could be considered genuine. “He runs his mouth like he has steel balls.”

I roll my eyes. “Ass,” I whisper, though I’m almost grateful for his outburst. 

My dad considers that truth. 

And nods. “Fair enough.”

Reno and I look at each other. He winks...but I don’t feel the rush of relief I desire. Maybe we dodged this one conversation, but there’s still so much unanswered. And even if my mother currently points a tense glare at my father, silently telling him to shut his mouth, and with Reno offering sympathetic smiles which offer solace while I feel selfish, I’m wired shut. 

“Have you spoken to the school?” dad asks, jumping when he sees my mother’s stare.

“Yes,” she mumbles with a shift in her hips. “The boys can come back after Easter break. Apparently there’s been...protests about their suspension.”

I perk up, my lips unhook. “What protests?”

“They called today,” she continues with a softer look in gray eyes. “Apparently Aerith staged a walkout during homeroom with Cid, Barret and a few other students. What’s his name,” she snaps her fingers, “Who’s Elias Shinra’s son again? He apparently negotiated everything.”

“Rufus!” Reno shouts, “No fucking way.”

“Language, Utah!” My father chides before returning to my mother, “All of that because they were suspended?”

“Wait,” I continue, while I shift through my pocket for my phone, “no one told us that.”

“I’m not 100 percent on the details,” she waves us off, “I just know most of the junior class ended up outside and refused to come back inside until expulsion was taken off the table. It looks like you are both clear to finish out your high school career there...if you want to that is…”

“You think my parents are gonna pay for another year at that shit hole?” Reno scoffs, “Fuck that...I’ll just drop out-”

“Absolutely not, sir,” my dad snaps, cutting Reno off, “We will pay for your final year-”

“Absolutely not, B-Money,” Reno counters, “I ain’t takin’ charity.”

“Who says I want to stay anyway,” I add and I swallow the earthquake that forms in my throat. But a crack in the foundation slips through chapped lips, and luckily my mother jumps in and squashes the conversation.

“No decisions have to be made now,” she interjects, “let’s just take it one day at a time. Right?” She stares down my dad, who’s dark circles around his eyes pulse with exhaustion and he shrugs his shoulders weakly. 

“Alright alright, we can discuss Arizona’s and Cloud’s future later I guess.”

Satisfied, for now, my mother allows a sweeter, calmer, smile grace her lips. Looking like a spoilt child who got her away before placing a soft kiss on his cheek. And my chest slowly unwinds, for now, as I look at the phone and see a missed call from the aforementioned brunette who almost started a riot on my behalf. Thinking I need to call her and tell her to stop destroying her own future for me. She doesn’t need to put a spotlight on herself; she worked too damn hard for her academics to squander them on principle. Especially when I never did a damn thing to deserve such a reaction. 

“You know,” Reno starts and I hear the inflection in his tone. He’s going to say something stupid. “If you’re gonna call me by any state, you should go with Texas.”

Dad arches an eyebrow, “Why’s that?”

“Cause everything is bigger in Tex-”

I yank him by the collar and drag him towards the stairs. “You’re a fucking idiot, Jesus Christ.”

My mother snorts but dad is still trying to wrap his wrecked brain around the joke, as Reno laughs at my reaction. But I’m not amused.

I struggle to find the humor in any of this. And I’m sure in ten years, I’ll look back on this moment with a chuckle; but ten years feels like another lifetime away. And suddenly one with a road paved black. Dark. Untouched. And I’m no longer sure how to take my next steps. 

* * *

I snapped at Reno as soon as I shut the door to my room. But he brushed me off without another word and the slight shake of his head. Like a silent reminder that I’m not mad at him for cracking jokes but mad at an ever evolving situation I have zero control over. But he doesn’t say anything else and I expect him to fuck off to his room. But he just gets comfortable on the edge of my bed with the controller in his hand, and continues playing the  _ Super Mario 64  _ game he started the other night. While I flop on my bed, close to the window, letting the hot afternoon sun hit my face. 

I pull out the guitar, lay it against my body, and pluck away at strings while eyes are glued to the shadows dancing across the ceiling as the sun moves about the sky. My phone rings a few more times but I don’t even bring my eyes to rest on the caller ID. And I feel like a shitty friend. Most of all. That people I’ve treated like disposable friends stood up for me in the face of injustice. I close my eyes and feel unworthy. And that drops my stomach as I strum the saddest G-chord I could muster. 

I remember when Reno asked me what depression felt like and I compared it to being lost at sea without a beacon of light to signal hope and legs growing tired from threading water. And today, it feels like I’m on a lifeboat under the blaring hot sun that evaporates any water from my skin. And everytime a wave rocks the boat, my stomach does a somersault, and nausea springs up my throat. And I press my fingers onto the neck of my guitar until I feel flesh begin to separate as I strum a B-minor chord. 

_ Into the flood again _ . 

I sit up suddenly and pull my hand from the guitar. My fingers calloused over from years of practice, yet angry red indents pulse at the tips. And I frown so loud, Reno turns to look at me with a curious expression. And I know he’s darting his eyes from my fingers to my face, and wondering if he can translate the crushed lines of my lips into a language he understands. But I rather he didn’t. And the voice beats in my head like a rising migraine:  _ when you feel you’ve lost control _ \--

The last time I felt this way, I held everything in- all the pain crushing my bones, all the words against me acting like arrows and piercing my brain- and I sewed my lips shut. And everytime I thought about telling my parents:

About how their fighting made me feel unworthy of being alive…

About the group of boys waiting for me to show up to camp to jump me…

How the overwhelming fear of death rendered me completely unable to function

That I took to throwing up in the toilet instead of speaking. And when that stopped working, I tore my skin again to alleviate the pressure in my chest. And when that stopped working, I took control of the only thing I had left. 

“I’m going to go take a ride with my dad,” my lips move frantically.

“Uh, okay…” he utters bewildered by my sudden shift.

“You think you’ll be cool alone?” I slide off my bed and grab a  _ Korn  _ hoody from the closet, throwing him one more look as I zip it over my black shirt. 

He shrugs, “I’ll just go bother your mother if I get bored.”

I nod, “I...think I’m going to tell him…” I shake, my resolve slowing building and collapsing. 

His eyes move along my body, “Okay. Good luck….”

“Once he knows about me...he’ll probably figure you out and then-”

“I said it’s cool,” he turns back towards the T.V, “It’s going to be okay, yo. Trust me.”

I try to hold on to that sentiment, and leave the room before I could change my mind again. Time felt like a fog. And when I jogged downstairs the light has waned and my father sits on the couch, eyes half open, watching the four o’clock news. He’s changed his flight outfit; now wearing blue jeans and a white polo. Short hair combed. I recall the night I met Rufus and Reno in the backyard, and the quick moment of consideration rushed through my head; but the uncertainty rendered me silent. And not much has changed in terms of clarity. I don’t know my father’s opinion on the matter. He is a registered democrat. Highly critical of George W. Bush’s presidency, but voted for his second term on superficial grounds. And this is a president actively trying to erase homosexuals from the conversation. And if my dad could shrug that off, could he really be that progressive? I’ve never met anyone in his group of guy friends that have identified as gay, but I did hear them throw around the  _ f _ word with such flippant disregard my entire life. They use gay as a punchline to a joke I don’t get. And my dad never corrected them-

He never laughed either. 

I try to recall a time he used gay to mean stupid, or scrunched his face when the fab five flashed on his screen, or anything that would justify my hesitant approach. And I”m drawing a blank.

But not that it makes a difference either. He doesn’t have to hate homosexuals to not want his son to identify as one- 

Pots and pans crashing onto the floor jarr both dad and I- followed by a string of curses from my mother in both English and German. My dad calls for her status and she lets out soft  _ fine _ , then laments her decision to cook in her mother tongue. 

Dad and I look at each other and he shrugs with a smile. “How’s Iowa State Fair doing?”

I snort, “That’s gonna be your thing, now?” 

“I’ll call him  _ Reno _ when he calls me Bastian instead of, what is it now? B-money?”

We share a laugh and some of the rocks that gather in the back of my throat start to shift. “Hey, so, I was wondering if we could take a ride around the island?” my dad’s eyes perk up. “Like we used to do?”

“Really?” he sits up, “Yeah, sure. That sounds great!”

The crack in his voice, the sheer genuine excitement, is almost too corny for me to accept. But I resist the urge to roll my teenage eyes out of my skull. He scrambles to his feet, slapping his pockets for his phone and looking for his keys, asking if it’s warm enough to go without a jacket, even though he was the only one who left the house today. And my mother pokes her head from the kitchen with a sly smirk on her face. 

“Oh! Are you going out?” She asks with a suspicious tone, “You wanna stop at Killmeyers and pick up some dinner?”

My dad stops, “I thought you were going to try cooking?”

“Right,” she cringes and tries to flash my father an innocent look, “I...don’t think that’s gonna work out today?”

He waves her off with a fine as he grabs his keys from the key ring. My mom throws me a proud look when his back is turned and I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. And at least I know, no matter which way this conversation goes, at least she has my back. She bids us goodbye and a quick  _ be careful _ as the door closes behind us. 

We’re in the white 2004 Infiniti my dad continues to tempt me with as a reward for completing drivers ed; except this time, he suggests we practice sometime this weekend before he signs me up so I have more of a shot. He tells me to pick the tunes, and lays a new CD case on my lap I thumb through- remembering mine is somewhere in Reno’s car and wondering if his parents snapped those in half. I think of telling my dad, who might actually roll up on the Sinclair’s house and demand the return of the CDs, but I figure I’ll hold off until after this initial conversation. 

I pick  _ Alice in Chains _ . My dad reminds me how he cried when he found out Layne Stanely had died.  _ What a waste _ and  _ why do the talented ones always die _ he repeated. I remember when he passed, my dad played them everyday. For months. And then stopped...three months later when he picked me up from the hospital. 

Nerves rock me as he pulls onto the expressway;  _ Rooster _ leaking through the speakers. The sun hiding behind a sudden rush of clouds tumbling along the blue sky- melting together into a sea of light gray. Not many people share the road as we drive towards the often vacant Arthur Kill Road- the middle of nowhere on Staten Island. 

“So,” he starts, “guess I missed a lot, huh?”

I play with the sleeves of my hoody, “Yeah.”

“How’s mom been?” I note the tension in his voice. 

“Fine,” and it’s the truth, “She’s going to meetings and her therapist. She’s been focused on making sure Reno feels comfortable at the house so I guess it’s a...healthy distraction.”

He curls his lips and flattens his brows, “How about you? Are you comfortable with all of this…?”

I almost laugh, because...obviously I’m fucking ecstatic that my boyfriend lives in the next room. But I’m nervous telling my father the truth. He may rescind his previous offer of allowing him to stay. My stomach turns and I bite my lip. I didn’t even consider that possibility. 

“Yeah, of course,” I confirm, “he has no one so…”

“I know,” he agrees with a hint of sadness in his voice, “I’m glad you’re lookin’ out for him. I just need to look out for you, okay?”

And I appreciate his concern for me. I’ve been neglecting the obvious added pressure of having Reno living with us. On paper, it was a no brainer. 

But the trouble with adolescence is short sightedness. And I don’t think anyone has thought about the future. I see how my dad scans the outside scenery as if he’s already analyzing the situation. The several different outcomes. And coming up to only half baked conclusions because he doesn’t know the full story. We’ve been hiding things from him; and locked him out of the situation brewing within the house. His house. Even if my mother tries to play it off like she’s in charge.

“You are just like her,” he chuckles, “your mom. Always trying to help people. It’s a good trait to have. But you have to remember to help yourselves too, you know.”

“I guess that’s why we have you?” I quip, “Keep us in line.”

He smiles, “Yeah...I’ll try to at least.”

We pull into the restaurant parking lot and he runs inside. And I know there’s no use delaying the inevitable. And if he is the only one in the house that can keep my mother and I from spinning out of control, then he needs to know the whole story. It’s only fair. And he’s making promises already to always help me. And this news can’t really ruin that, could it? It’s not the worst thing about me. 

I feel my lungs expand and contract. And I hate how I can feel those organs press against my ribcage, tightening my chest. 

This isn’t the first time I came close to telling him. 

In the hospital bed, when I curled into a fetal position and hid under covers, and he tried to get me to tell him why I did this to myself. Sitting at the edge of the bed. I could see the shadow of his arm reach out to touch me, then retracted when I flinched. All the words piled against my throat; all me fear crushing me. I would say those words and he would pull back completely. And leave me in that hospital room to rot. That I would never be accepted by him. Or my mother. Or by anyone. I chose to lie by admitting to nothing. And instead, my parents filled in the blanks with their own truths. 

The sound of the back door opening causes me to jump and I grit my teeth at my own pathetic display. But dad is joking about mom ordering the entire restaurant. And then asking if we’ve brought Reno here to eat yet, and maybe that’s something to do over the weekend. Get out of the house. Then reminding himself of how grounded I am. Laughing at his own jokes as he takes a seat in the driver’s side and goes to put the car in drive.

“D-Dad,” I stutter and he freezes to look at me and I pull my eyes away. I can’t look at him. I focus on the scars on my wrist that poke out from underneath my black hoodie. How close I’ve been to repeating the same mistakes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks in a voice that shakes. 

“Uhm,” I take a breath, “I've been hiding something else from you and I don’t really know how to say it…” I pinch my eyes shut, “I don’t want you to hate me…”

“Hey, kiddo,” he grabs my shoulder, gently shaking me. “There’s nothing you could say that would make me hate you. Okay? I love you.”

I open my eyes, he squeezes my shoulder to like an exclamation point on his sentence. Another sharp inhale that burns the back of my throat. But I’ve come this far; no use turning back. Take the plunge, regardless of the consequences. 

“I’m gay-”

“Oh thank fucking god,” he exhales so loud in drowns out the rough vocals coming from the speakers. And I dart my eyes to him, completely flabbergasted by his outburst, and he’s leaning against the seat, running his palms over his face. “I thought you got a girl pregnant.” Then he puts his hand over his heart, “oh my god, I was having a heart attack. I thought I was going to have some girl's dad showing up to our house with a shotgun. Oh fuck, you just took ten years off my life, kid.”

“So,” I start cautiously, waiting for his features to shift after he catches his breath. “You...don’t care?”

“Care about what?” He looks at me, now, like I’m the one acting insane. 

“Dad, I’m gay,” I exasperate. 

“Oh,” he pauses. And I watch as he scans my face with a worried look on his face. As if he’s going through all the real meanings behind that statement. “Yeah..”

“Yeah?!” I snap, “Oh, yeah.”

“No no, I mean,” he scrambles with a few rabid blinks, “I mean...it’s fine. It's okay.” His tone evens out as he starts to acknowledge the truth. What that means. And I’m still expecting him to back out of my life. Or criticize me. Or kick me out. But he just swallows as if realizing that my eyes throb from fear. 

And he lets out a sigh, and places his hand back on my shoulder and pulls me so I am forced to look into his mix of blue-green eyes that swirl like the lake we went to when I was growing up. Where I learned how to swim. The same place he taught me how to ride a bike. And throw a ball. And even when I fell off and scraped my knees, or failed to catch a ball and got a black eye, or the time I swore the shark from  _ Jaws _ lived in the lake and refused to go in, he never made me like I was less of his son. Or less of a man. He would tell me to not cry. To be brave. But he wouldn’t lose that smile. The same one that pulls at his lips now. 

“Cloud,” he says, “I don’t care what you like or who you like. I just want you to be happy…”

Then he does something he hasn’t done since we last went to that lake. A memory I was too young to hold on to. He pulls me into a hug, and I’m too shocked at first to return the gesture at first. But he holds onto me like my mom did the night I ran from home, like I would evaporate- slip from his grasp again. And I when I close my eyes I remember the night I tried to kill myself. And how through my mother’s arms, as she tried to bandage the wounds to stop the bleeding, I saw my father on the phone screaming at the 911 operator to get someone- anyone- to our house. That his son is bleeding. And I saw a man I regarded as a pinnacle of masculinity completely crumble. Hysterical until I lost consciousness. 

I return the hug.

“Is...this why you…” he stops before he could finish the question. Pushing back the rest of his words. 

“Part of it…” I admit. My lips tremble at the confession and he pats me on the back. 

“I’m sorry I made you think, for a minute, that I wouldn’t accept you…”

“I just didn’t know how you would react…” I try to pull away but he has a constrictor grip around me. “Thought you’d hate me or something.”

“Never,” he ends the hug and tries to wipe away a few stray tears before he forces a smile. “I’m guessing mom knows, already?”

I nod, “Yeah, sorry. She kinda figured it out though.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he shrugs, and finally puts the car into drive, “Good that she knows. No more secrets between us, right?”

And I agree to these terms and find all the tension that existed in my chest as boulders have turned to dust. And I can breathe again for the first time in forever. And no longer do I feel like I can’t trust my parents. They have proven themselves. And I regret the years I spent leaving them out of my life, in the name of self-preservation. But no use living in the past. The mistakes we’ve all made. Now we can start anew...fresh. 

* * *

We pull into the driveway. The car ride silent save for some broken conversations about concerts my dad wants to take me to in the summer. And maybe he’ll even give Warped Tour a chance this year, despite not being a fan of the bands that usually play. He keeps taking credit for my taste in music, and that clearly he’s raised me well. And I roll my eyes despite secretly agreeing with him. 

He’s not so bad. 

“Hey, by the way,” he puts the car in parked, “Do you have a boyfriend...or something?”

I blink several times. Stare at him. Then the house. Then back at him. And he’s a hundred percent serious. “Really, Dad?”

He narrows his eyes, “Uh, yeah, I’m serious. I want to know who’s in your life. You keep a lot of things from us- and I know that it’s our fau-”

I wave his regrets away before we fall into a rabbit hole. “Yeah, I have a boyfriend.”

Now, I am expecting him to put two and two together considering Math is his strong subject. And he’s the CFO of a major company. And he really can not be this oblivious to the situation unfolding. And fuck, I was a hundred percent sure he would have figured it out the moment I told him I was gay, that the boy currently residing in our house would be real fucking important to me. But instead his face lights up and he utters, “Oh! That’s...great. What’s he like?”

I shake my head with a small chuckle. 

“He’s…” and I look at my open bedroom window, “great. Cares about my future, wants me to do better and be better. I told him about...everything that’s been happening with me and he has helped me, alot. He’s the reason why I even could tell you about the drugs and...being gay, and shit like that. I really don't think I would be here right now if not for him.” I smile. “He saved me…”

And maybe that’s a heavy admission. 

But I know the road I was traveling before I met Reno had one outcome. And I’ve been close to losing myself; between drinking until I blacked out, abusing any drug that would hide the truth, and hanging out with people more toxic than either of those substances. With no hope for the future. I never thought about college, or living to twenty-five, or how I wanted to paint the picture of my life past this year. 

I had a question burning in me at the beginning of this story, and I think I’ve found the answer. 

“That sounds great,” my dad exclaims, “I’m glad someone’s been watching your back. When do I get to meet him?”

“Soon, dad. Real soon,” my voice drips with sarcasm he doesn’t pick up on. And all he says is he can’t wait to meet the special guy.

Inside, we hear commotion in the kitchen again and two familiar voices. Reno and my mom are discussing how to use an oven. My mother apparently confused by the concept of pre-heating, and Reno laughing at her privileged expense. When I enter, he’s sitting on the counter watching her cut apples while she curses at him for being annoying. 

“You have no idea, just ask your son how annoying I can get,” he snickers and she glares at him. “I told you I can make it for you.”

“No,” she argues, “I can make an apple pie!”

“Do you know which pan you have to use?” he adds and she chucks an apple slice at him. 

“I see you’re comfortable,” I acknowledge and he smirks at me. And my heart melts seeing how relaxed he looks taking jabs at my mom, who I know is feigning frustration from the softness in her eyes when she looks at him. 

“I’m about to take over this place,” he winks.

“I don’t know how you put up with him,” she jokes, “Reno, make yourself useful and help Cloud set the table or something.”

He jumps off the counter, “Shit, y’all eat together like a  _ family _ . Fucking weird…”

My dad appears, holding the bag of food. All excited and before I could stop him, he places the brown paper bag wrapped in plastic on the table and proudly exclaims without even taking a second to consider his words. 

“Claudia, did you know our son has a boyfriend?” He jabs, as if he’s finally privy to news before her.

The knife screeches to a halt, and slowly she turns to look at him with a single arched eyebrow. “You’re kidding right?” 

“Nope! He just told me,” he folds his arms over his chest with a satisfied smirk. “He says we’ll meet him soon.”

“Oh my god, you’re not joking,” she pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“Oh word?” Reno chuckles and I shoot him a pointed stare as I take the dishes from the cabinet, “You got a boyfriend? What’s he like, man.”

“He’s a fucking jackass,” I bite. 

“That’s not what you said,” my dad argues, “you said he is a great guy. Really special. Keeps you in check!”

“Ooh, well doesn’t he sound just spectacular.” Reno grabs a couple of plates from my hand playfully. And I struggle to keep a grin from replacing my frown when he gets close to me. My heart racing just from the adoration in his eyes, and I forget the other people in the kitchen for a brief moment. 

“Wait,” my dad pauses, “Where did you meet this kid? Why haven’t you brought him around already.”

“Bastian,” my mother pleads, “Come on, really?”

“What!?” He shouts, looking at her, then me, then finally Reno. 

And I see the little gears turn in his head. 

He squints at the red-head who can’t help the sinister look that flashes across his face.

And with every tick of the clock in the kitchen, another rush of realization flies through my father. How Reno suddenly entered our lives way back in October, and never seemed to leave. Staying over for dinners where the invitation became expected. Sleeping over nearly every weekend. In my room. In my bed.

“Oh...no,” my dad whispers.

“What’s up future father-in-law?” Reno smirks.

And my dad’s eyes go wide, “Him!?” 

“Yes!” My mom yells in relief, “Obviously?!”

“Well obvious to everyone but me!” he argues. “He seems so frustrating to be around.”

“Facts, dad,” I roll my eyes.

“Wow, I’m standing right here.”

My dad rubs his temples and reiterates all the time they allowed us to share a bed, none the wiser. And my mom waves the knife dramatically around as she begs him to lament their terrible parenting, at least until after dinner. But neither of them go back on their offer for him to stay. And Reno hides a sigh of relief with a chuckle as he helps me finish setting the table. And over dinner we sit together, like a family, and my dad starts establishing rules for us to obey now that our secret relationship is no longer a secret. 

I’m still grounded so no interacting after school; 

and Reno counters that we have to work on homework together, obviously. And without him, I’m definitely going to fail Math and Physics.

Dad counter offers we can hang out, upstairs, in the kitchen, until after dinner then need to go into our respective rooms.

And no talking on the phone past nine p.m

And Reno reminds everyone he doesn’t have a cell phone, so can we talk via AIM instead.

And the whole time my mother and I look at each other with a slow shake of our heads. Knowing full well all of this discussion would be for nothing, because we are two teenagers, living under the same roof, and we’re going to find ways to sneak around. But I promise her with my eyes that I won’t rock the boat  _ too much _ . And she smiles and lets out a sigh. As my dad gets railroaded by a relentless houseguest. 

And I know this isn’t normal. Not entirely. 

But what’s normal ever done for us?

After dinner, my parents cuddle up on the couch to watch T.V. The two of them whispering in flirtatious tones, finally allowing themselves to unwind together after the longest week of both their lives. Reno and I made moves to go upstairs, but not before my dad reminded us of my punishment; and while he’s cool with my boyfriend living with us for the foreseeable future, I’m to remain in my room after dinner until the morning until further notice. I thought about arguing, but a gentle kick from Reno rendered me quiet. No use rocking the boat when the situation is still in the sensitive early days. 

I sit on my bed, criss crossed, trying to learn the song I’ve been teaching myself since before Halloween- that’s been on the back burner for months. Trying to take my mind off the boy only one room over, staring outside that glass door that leads to the balcony, wondering what his next steps are going to be. But a knock on the door pauses my imagination. I snap my head towards the sound and Reno peers over his shoulder, making sure the coast is clear, before entering my room. Shutting the door behind him with a sly smile. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I jab playfully.

“Your parents passed out on the couch, figured that could buy us a few minutes. Whatcha playin’?” he asks, taking a seat next to me.

“ _ Like a Stone _ ,” I respond, “by Audioslave.”

“Don’t remember that one in the CD case,” he leans into me, our arms brush together and I can’t help my smile at the friction. He really shouldn’t be in my room- too many risks- but I don’t want him to leave just yet. I’ve enjoyed falling asleep to the sound of his even breathing. Hand rubbing my back. And now, that’s come to an end, I want to enjoy the few minutes we have before my dad gets wise and sends Reno back to his room.

“So,” he reaches over and runs his fingers through my hair again like he did earlier. “I’m your boyfriend, now? Last I checked, we couldn’t be together, right?”

“I, uh,” I lose myself in his eyes, that sparkle and shine as he draws us closer. And I remember that painful night a week ago when I let him go for his own safety. Thinking us not being together would be better than the alternative. I know, deep down, it had been the right decision, but I never expected he would be found out anyway and forced to leave his house. I’ve been wondering where we stand. And I know it’s obvious from how he tangles his hand in my hair. And I sigh, “Guess we can revisit that conversation earlier than expected.”

“Mmhm,” he muses, “Well before this goes any further then, we should probably renegotiate the terms of our relationship.” 

And I smirk with a nod, “You mean those boundaries.”

“Yeah.” His hand falls from my tangled hair, onto my knee, “So first, I guess, it really doesn’t matter who knows if we’re gay anymore.” he moves up my leg until my guitar blocks his advances. Tingles shoot up my body making my head feel light. Quieting all the noise that’s plagued me. “And I don’t have a cell phone for you to send cheesy text messages calling me babe and shit.”

“That’s right,  _ honey _ ,” I chuckle and remove the guitar from my lap. 

And he rolls his eyes despite the smile, “And I’m still not really into the whole PDA crap but,” he takes my hand and links our fingers, “I want to be able to hold your hand whenever I want…”

I look at our joined hands, resting on my lap; the squeeze that makes my heart sprint. He leans in until our heads meet. I feel his breath on my lips coaxing them open. 

“Damn,” I whisper, “now that’s a fucking line.”

“Thought you might like it.” And he doesn’t wait for a witty response, or a snide comment, and closes the gap. His lips on mine, gentle at first but I feel a fire burn in me that tempts me to push my tongue past his teeth completely desperate to taste him. Everything freezes. Yet moves like a blur. And I cup his face to draw him closer. Needing him to be as near as physically possible. His arms snake around me, nails dragging along my spine, which illiciates a moan from my throat. And he pulls back, our smiles like magnets. Joined together. 

“Easy there,” he murmurs, “I have to walk back to my room soon.”

“Fuck.” I kiss him again. Overwhelmed by the rush of colors, like an eruption, in my chest that my head feels light. And I wonder if something as simple, as magical, as a kiss could stop my heart; because I feel like I’m floating in between reality. 

We break for air. And he’s breathless, “I have one more term to add.”

And I run my thumbs over his cheeks, enjoying the smoothness of his skin under my touch. “Word? What’s that?”

“We don’t hide anymore. I’m with you and you’re with me.”

My heart thumps in my chest; and how little I anticipated this moment. Never really believing it would happen, this soon. And I know there was a lot of hurt that got us here. Pain that I still see etched across his white hot blues and trauma he hasn’t even begun to process; trauma he’s trying to bury. And while focusing on the rebuilding of our teenage love may pale in comparison to the struggle of rebuilding the rest of his life, at least he will know he is never alone. Again. 

“I agree to the terms of our relationship as you have laid them out,” and I seal that statement with my lips on his, “Always.”

“God, you are shit at negotiating,” he clicks his tongue, “but I love you. Always.”

And while there’s more that still needs to be addressed, it can wait. 

And maybe I should let the adults handle the big stuff. 

Let us focus on our unrelenting teenage love. 

Because right now, our lips and tongues find themselves once again. Falling back onto the bed, tangled in each other’s arms. 

That’s all that matters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really so close to finishing this chapter this morning and it ended up taking me ALL FREAKING DAY. Which meant I didn't do laundry, didn't do homework, didn't plan ANYTHING for this week. So, I hope it was worth it haha. Let me know what you think! We are almost done and it's really been such a wild ride. I'm really not ready for it to end, and while I may take a break for a few weeks (and like finish my last class of graduate school), I will surely be back with more Cleno stories.
> 
> If you follow my tumblr you know I have a ton of story ideas and head canons I've been posting that I want to explore. 
> 
> Let me know what you all think! Hope you beautiful people are doing well. I miss you all <3 <3 <3


	39. The Stars Look Very Different Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is Major Tom to Ground Control  
>  I'm stepping through the door  
> And I'm floating in a most peculiar way  
> And the stars look very different today  
> For here  
> Am I sitting in a tin can_  
> "Space Oddity" by David Bowie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, I don't actually think there's TW for this chapter. So I am hoping I didn't miss anything. Also, I've missed you all.

The wind flicks against Reno’s cheeks and a cold red burn spreads over pale skin. Fading strands the shade of cherries dance in the spring breeze. He leans against the iron railing surrounding the balcony. His nimble fingers wrapping brown blunt paper around lumps of green; long slender digits that had just left trails of pink stripes on my hips only moments ago, move at a steady pace. Hypnotizing. 

He rolls a blunt like he fucks. 

Slow. Deliberate. Precise. 

And I could watch him do both for  _ hours _ . 

“Where’d ya learn to roll like that?” I ask, scooting closer to him. I sit between his open legs, admiring his exposed chest peeking from the unbutton blue and gray plaid shirt he threw on at my stern behest. He had been in a rush to ingest toxins after sweating them out over tangled sheets. His black ripped jeans, not even fully buttoned, hang open like a temptation. 

Reno’s lips twitch at my question, not even bringing his eyes to look at me. “Jesus camp.”

I snort through a laugh I try to hide. “Wait seriously? You went to a Christain camp?”

“Yurp. Didn’t you?”

“Well...it was a camp…” 

“Lemme guess, had your first gay experience?” he looks at me. Behind him, the sun fades into fiery reds and pinks and I see the twinkle of Manhattan in the distance. Like artificial stars which mirror his glimmering blue eyes. 

I consider his question and drop my gaze to the calluses on my fingertips. Think about how I should have brought my guitar to practice a new song while he feeds me weed and sings along with his rough vocals. “Yeah…”

“As is tradition.” He flicks his tongue against the paper. The final touch. And my lips tremble and a shiver seizes in the center of my chest. He places the blunt between his lips- lips that had just ran through the length of my body- with a smirk, “How bad was it?” the orange ember lights up the darkened sky like a firefly. 

“The camp or the guy,” I huff to his chuckle. 

“The guy.” white smoke erupts from his mouth like a sinister dragon. 

This is the first time he’s ever flat out asked about Zack. Conversations teetered on the edge of the subject- circled like predator to prey- but never breached the topic. Almost like a silent agreement not to bring up the former flames that singed our skin unless it’s offered up like a broken poem missing lines. And…

The timing strange enough.

We’ve lived together for a week. Engrossed with each other. Stealing kisses away from my parents' watchful eyes. Tiptoeing in the dead of night to fool around under the covers, on edge, waiting for them to get wise to our shennagains. Pulling apart once the sun rose over the stone mansion that lurks beyond our yard like a constant reminder of his former life. We didn’t speak on any subject deeper than what to eat

And what game to play.

Or how our names sounded through guttural moans. 

Now, a week under house arrest, with me sitting between his legs, on the balcony that offers the perfect view of the darkened bedroom across the way, he decides to finally bring up Zack. 

“Why you wanna know?” I take the blunt from his mouth and help myself to the sweet taste of fire. Despite his line of questioning, I can’t help but be enamored with how he looks under the darkening sky. His features sharpened like knives, like if I dared to run my hand along his cheek bones I would cut and bleed. His lips twist into a sardonic smirk and small almond eyes shimmer like the moon. And I realize I have been absentmindedly playing with the hem of his shirt. 

He stares at me for one beat, then drags his gaze to his former bedroom. Curtains drawn. “Can’t be curious about my boyfriend?”

“You could…” I blow smoke away from him, “you just never asked before.”

“Yeah well I’m askin’ now,” he hides his disdain under a soft laugh that lodges in his throat, “you don’t have to tell me…”

“Nothing to tell,” I say quickly, “He was two years older. Still in the closet. And convinced me that he loved me and if I loved him, I would suck his dick in a canoe. And I was dumb enough to do it.”

I exhale. My stomach swims with welled anxiety. And I try to keep the flush of emotions from spilling all over my face. But that was the longest sentence I’ve ever dedicated to the raven haired boy who robbed me of part of my innocence. My first. In many ways. First kiss under a full moon, after we jumped in- still in our camp uniforms of blue shorts and yellow shirts- the clash of frigid water and the warmth of Summer. The warmth of his body close to mine. The warmth of his lips when they pushed against mine- the quick prick of pain. The hazy confusion that followed. That soured a moment meant to be remembered fondly...instead...I battle with the tightening of my insides as they cringe and turn-

Then Reno’s sputtering laughter shatters the memory like glass and I snap my narrowed eyes at him. 

“Are you  _ fucking _ serious?” I shout.

“No no, I’m not laughing at that sad fucking story, babe,” he tries to compose himself, but the mocking smile remains. “It’s your face-”

“Oh that’s better!” I consider throwing the blunt at him, but that would waste perfectly innocent weed, and then try to move to leave my position. But he jumps and wraps his arm around my torso. Locking me against him. And despite this new feeling of comfort, I’m still fucking pissed. 

“You looked like you smelled shit or something,” he murmurs smoothly like scotch leaning closer, “it was kinda cute.”

“Fuck you,” I frown but he doesn’t waver. “It’s not funny.”

“Bet it wasn’t,” he turns and takes a hit of the blunt still between my fingers. Inhale and lifts his head to blow the smoke into the whispering wind. “Bet your second gay experience was way better.”

“Debatable,” I retort and he smiles before I allow him to close the gap. His lips on mine. And he tastes like electric blue shockwaves. 

With the hint of frost. 

And before he breaks the kiss, he nips my bottom lip like a reminder.

So different than my first- not even comparable. 

“You’re a jackass,” I hiss through my own smile. 

“Nah, I’m your jackass.” he plucks the weed from my hand, “stop wasting our shit, fuck.”

Difficult not to be rushed with heat when he makes comments like that; _our shit,_ _our life,_ one we are building together on the wreckage of his former existence. And at times like this, where we sit in such an awkward position, but do so we can be as physically close as possible, I don’t think about the implications and risks of joining our lives together so young. Not when I’m pulled by the smoothness of his skin, out in the open for the world to see, and I have to run my hands up and down his chest. Feeling the mountains of muscles as his lean stomach retrachs and expands. 

“What about you?” I ask, “how was your gay camp experience?”

He snickers, “Uh…” I resent myself for prying, even if he started this conversation, when I see how his eyes glaze over and float away. He moves his hands under the shirt I threw over my body before walking out into the brisk evening air, and his fingers are chilled as they mindlessly travel up my skin. And I gingerly take the blunt from his free hand after he takes one more tense inhale. “It was right before freshman year of high school. Kinda of a right of passage for the men in my family to go to this big time Christain camp for the summer. I already figured I was gay, but never really acted on it. Then I saw my bunk mate and he was fine as  _ fuck _ it pretty much sealed the deal.”

“Boring,” I sing.

“Yeah, you want the dirty details?” he smirks to my own grimace as I consider what he means. And maybe I don’t want to know every torrid detail of my boyfriend’s past before he met and made me his. He tilts his head at my pause, running his hand up my back, sending numbing sensations up my spine and pulling me closer than I thought possible. “You gave your first blowjob in a canoe when you were...”

“Twelve, turning thirteen….” I admit; and swallow that bitter pill. Waiting for a flash of judgement.

“I gave my first blowjob in a church pew when I was fourteen. And then my second thirty minutes later behind the mess hall.”

I try to stop my eyes from going wide, “What? Same guy…?”

He shakes his head, “Nah, first guy was my hot bunkmate. Second was a buddy of mine who I told and he wanted to  _ know how it felt _ . So, you know, being a good friend and all.”

There’s no hint of shame in his voice; and I realize I’ve been beating myself up for the last three years over my own actions. Adding an extra set of cement to my feet. Throwing myself in a lake to drown in my mistakes. And I never considered where the shame in my own experience really stemmed from. Always felt like the action itself, the engaging in a sexual act with a boy, who later made me feel like less of a human for it, caused this sense of creeping disgust with myself. That took root in my head, and like a vine crawled down my entire being, choking me. All these years spent hating myself. Maybe I was young...too young. Easily manipulated--

His lips brush along the side of my face. “Where’d you go just now, pretty boy?”

“Just thinking,” I take a hit and try to burn the harsh memories from my mind, “You must like giving blow jobs.”

“You don’t say?” he laughs, a real laugh, one not hindered by uncertainty. And I wish I felt as free as he has in the last week. And while I know there’s still a hint of pain in his voice at times, and his eyes drift away from me when we lay in bed together and he catches a glimpse from across the yard of his old curtains moving, but as the days stretch to nights. As days turned into a week in a blink, he has settled. Felt more...himself. And not even the Reno I met seven months ago- the Reno who hid behind dark humor and avoided any conversation which would reveal a part of his past he couldn’t bare to acknowledge. Now he kisses his way to my neck, mumbling about how  _ good  _ he is at  _ sucking dick _ and how I should know practice makes perfect. 

And I don’t know if it’s the weed,

Or the magic of the setting sun over the New York skyline. 

Or the confident humor in his voice, that almost distracts me from his nails adding more lines to my skin... 

Or that I could never imagine...almost four years from when I stood in front of the first boy I ever kissed while he completely dismantled me with three words...I would be embraced by hopefully the last boy I’ll ever kiss while he uses a different set of words to validate me…

But I never felt so in control in the chaos that is my life. 

The phone vibrating in my pocket rips us from our trance. And I fish the obnoxious technology from my jeans much to Reno’s chagrin. Who leans against the railing with a grumble about answering my phone at the worst possible times. But I shoot him an unamused look before I look down at the caller ID to see Cid’s name popping up on the screen. And I let it go for two more rings as I think about whether or not to answer. An unfounded concern creeps up my spine, until I realize I’m being ….stupid.

“Hey-” I start but immediately cut off when his voice shouts into my ear and I pull the phone away with a flinch. 

“YOOOOOOOOOO,” Cid announces himself to the entire neighborhood, “What’s good my brother from another mother!” I hear other voices in the background- mostly male. And I know most schools are on Easter break right now and many of the old group, now tempted by the warming weather and lack of parental guidance, have been getting together during the week. And I’ve avoided most of the calls for my attendance with regretful reminders of my punishment. But Cid was relentless. 

“You know, chillin’” I respond. 

“You still on house arrest with your  _ boyfriend _ ?”

Barret’s voice leaks into the conversation, “It ain’t punishment if he’s with his boyfriend.”

“You must be getting so much ass right now!” Cid practically screams this for the whole crew to hear and this statement captures Reno’s attention who flicks his eyes at me with a smirk I mirror. 

I chuckle, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Oh that’s right, you’re probably getting the one getting dicked down.”

I recoil, “Excuse me?!” And I shoot the laughing red-head a glare. 

“Yo! Deadass you are obsessed with that kids dick! Fucking weird, son!” Barret exclaims.

“I’m just sayin’, bro! That’s fucking sick, he gets to just sit at home and bang his boyfriend all day.” A commotion on the other end of the phone; Barret shouting at Cid to stop thinking about me having sex and then putting the images in  _ his _ head. “Nah, for real, bro, you grounded?”

I’m about to remind him that I am grounded for, according to my dad, literally the rest of my existence on this plane of reality, when Reno snatches the phone from my hand like a viper. 

“Hey, fucker,” he sings into the receiver, “whatcha all got planned for tonight.” Suddenly, Cid decides to whisper his responses into my smirking boyfriend’s ear. Who nods along to the no doubt list of delinquent plans the group have for the night. Hanging out in convenience store parking lots, or Vincent’s backyard with the fire pit roaring to life, or Mike’s Place for greasy overpriced food. 

“That shit sounds dumb as fuck,” Reno continues taking another hit of the almost forgotten blunt, “but I’ll negotiate a suspended sentence for our boyfriend so he can make an appearance.”

“ _ Our _ ?” I snap, trying to grab the phone, but Reno uses his abnormally strong legs to trap me in place, and his arm to block my flailing attempts to retrieve the device. 

“Cid wants to know if he can tickle your balls later?” Reno laughs.

“No one will get to tickle my balls if you don’t give me the phone.”

“Damn, homie, you got me in trouble,” he laughs, “yo, we’ll see you assholes in a minute.” He flips the phone close and tosses it to me as if this was appropriate behavior. And continues to mock me with the glow of his eyes as he hands me the rest of the blunt to smoke. “Meetin’ at Wendys in Dongan Hills, then potential white trash party.”

I roll my eyes, “have fun.”

“Don’t get pissy with me, pretty boy. I’m about to get you a night out with your friends. If that’s what you want?”

I actually hadn’t thought about leaving the house for the foreseeable future. Barret wasn’t completely off track- this was a pathetic attempt at punishment. I’m literally living with my boyfriend during a combination suspension and Easter break- meaning we haven’t even left to go to the brick wall monstrosity that had really felt like a metaphorical prison. Instead, playing video games in the dusty dark basement until we were minutes away from an actual verbal altercation because he sucks at  _ Halo _ and can’t stand losing. Or outside in the warming spring air, where I play the top grunge hits on my guitar and he stares at the front lawn from my stoop. His fading red strands waltzing in the wind. Brows crushed. And eyes so blue they look like shimmering crystals of ice reflecting in the sun. Permanent scowl as if the chirping birds hurl insults at him. And I realize, as I finish off the last of the blunt, his head now resting back on the cold iron railing, him seemingly unaware that his gaze has drifted back to the house across the broken fence, that maybe he needs this night out more than me.

“How you gonna convince my father to let me go for the night?”

He untangles our bodies and I miss the warmth his provided. “Leave that to me, hot stuff. I got you.”

* * *

My parents had mentioned in passing a potential double date with a buddy of my dads they hadn’t seen in years; down visiting from Chicago with his wife. There was an alien eagerness in my mother’s voice when she mentioned it- crushed instantly with my father’s reluctance after he shot both Reno and I curious stares. As if the setting sun would ignite some carnal desires and we would fuck all over the damn house. As if that already  _ hadn’t _ happened two months ago. And maybe my mom is more wise to us- the concerned frown sometimes gives her away- but she was realistic. You can’t keep two teenagers off each other. And you can’t babysit them either. My dad thought he could  _ try _ . 

Laughable. I don’t know what they thought we had been doing upstairs 

Reno jogs down the stairs, having at least enough sense to button up his shirt and pants, and spray us both with cologne in an attempt to hide the stench of pot that clung to our clothing. My dad in the kitchen, home early from work, but still in his suit and tie, standing next to the table looking at the newspaper- probably the finance section if I know him well enough. 

“Sup, B-man,” Reno says as he enters. My dad looks up from the paper and moves his algae colored eyes between the two of us- reading our bloodshot eyes and rosy cheeks but making no accusations against us. “When are your buddies coming through tonight?”

Dad arches an eyebrow, “Around seven…”

“So what’s the game plan?” Reno leans against the wall, arms folded over his chest. 

“Just catching up in the yard,” my dad shrugs, “probably pick up some food from Killmeyers-”

“Weak sauce!” Reno laughs, “You got your boy and his lady comin’ all the way from Chi-town and y’all just gonna hang out on this shit hole island?” My dad opens his mouth to retort, clearly offended from the crease in his brows, but the red-head continues, “You should really hit the town, you know. I mean, when was the time you took the wife out?”

He narrows his eyes at the two of us, straightens himself up, and places his hands on his hips. I stifle the chuckle that threatens to escape my lips. “Why are you so concerned about the last time I took my wife out?”

“I’m just sayin’, man, she’s been in this house all day every day since she got back. Maybe she needs some fresh air.”

“Oh, I’m sure Claudia’s well being is why you are so eager for us to leave,” he rolls his eyes, “like I don’t know what you two are up to, right now.”

Reno shifts, drops his smirk into a thin line and loses the edge in his tone. “Whatcha mean?”

“I’m not leaving you two alone in this house,” my dad states bluntly attempting to wave Reno’s question away like a gnat. 

“You never had an issue before.”

“It’s different now.”

“How so?”

“You two are together.”

“We were together before.”

“Well, I didn’t know that!”

His voice cracks. And Reno’s eyes twinkle. “What you think is gonna happen if you leave us alone?”

Dad grits his teeth- and he has to know what Reno is doing. And maybe if he had more skills up his sleeve, this conversation would have been over. But the most discipline he’s ever enacted is this pathetic grounding. “You know stuff.”

And Reno feeds off weakness like it’s a rare steak. “That’s mad vague, bro.”

“You  _ know _ .” My dad rubs the back of his neck. And I can’t believe he’s getting railroaded by a seventeen year old right now. 

“I’m a good christian boy, sir,” Reno drawls, his accent on display, “‘fraid I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

Now my dad shoots Reno an incredulous look, “ _Yeah_ _okay,_ Dallas, Texas.”

But he’s starting to sweat. And there’s the seed Reno planted earlier about my mother needing to leave the suffocating walls of this house. Evident from the fact that it’s almost six in the evening, and she’s still planting flowers all over the side of the house, opposite of where Reno and I were just using a plant to melt our brains, to keep her hands busy.  _ Idle hands _ ,  _ Cloud _ she kept reiterating while she dragged the two of us to  _ Home Depot _ for three hours to stock up on enough shit to create her own botanical garden; then remained outside for the duration of the day, putting together her project while Reno and I were left to our own devices.

And, well, plenty of  _ stuff _ happened. 

“You know,  _ Bass Pro Shops _ ” Reno continues, “you wouldn’t really have to worry too much if you let us meet up with our friends.”

My dad lets out a huff. “You are free to hang out with whoever you want, Nashville,” then my dad darts his eyes to me. I had been standing on the other side of the kitchen, mostly silent, trying to blend into the white walls and wooden cabinets. Knowing this would happen. “Stormy over here is the one that’s grounded.”

“ _ Really, Stormy? _ ” I swallow back; knowing any snide comment would ruin the traction Reno’s garnered. And the red-head shoots me a look which screams  _ stand down _ . 

“Why’s he grounded again?” Reno cocks his head to the side. 

“He stole his mother’s prescription medicine and sold it to kids at your school!”

“Yikes,” Reno exclaims and my dad nods like he’s finally got him to understand. But instead he rocks back and forth on his heels, dragging his eyes dramatically to the ceiling like he’s really thinking about his next phrase. But shrugs. “But he ain’t gonna do that shit when I’m around, though.” He pauses, and before my dad could protest, continues, “Dealbreaker.”

This time, he gives my dad a chance to retort. But the older man has consideration jetting across his eyes as he scans Reno’s nearly aloof form. And I’ve noticed my dad and he had this interesting way of communicating. Jabs towards each other like a fencing match, before my dad halts and looks past the guard Reno built for the true meaning behind his words. And maybe on Reno’s end, he’s manipulating my father like a puppet. But, I think, and I see it when my dad holds back the smile attempting to crack the facade, that maybe Reno really means half the bullshit coming out of his mouth. 

But he isn’t giving up that quickly either. And several more tense seconds past and Reno starts to get ancy. 

“How bout this, let’s say y’all do decide to go out, what time you thinkin’ of gettin’ back?”

My dad blinks a few times, “Why?”

“I can guarantee we will be home before you get home. At least then you know we can’t get into  _ too  _ much trouble.”

Dad thinks about this offer, looks over at the front door which creaks open- alerting us to my mother’s return. She’s mumbling about having to get ready after spending the whole day covered in dirt. And we catch a momentary glimpse of her small form as she rushes up the stairs. He sighs, “Ten thirty.”

Reno cringes, “Come on, it’s your first date night with the wife in  _ years _ .”

“No it isn’t-”

“Come on, Bastian, you don’t have to lie to me.”

My dad rubs his temples, “Eleven.”

“Midnight.”

“ _ Seriously!” _

“I’m just sayin’. It’s a Thursday. You’re young and hip. There’s tons of shit you crazy kids can get into. She’s an heiress to a hotel chain. Maybe spring for the suite for a few hours. I don’t know. Treat yourselves.”

My turn to cringe at the disgusting thought of my parents engaging in any kind of physical act. But I can see my dad nodding his head, as if realizing it has just been  _ that long _ since the last time they shared a bed. And maybe they could use a night out on the town, with some other adults, without my mother succumbing to her addiction and throwing up all over the car. I know they’ve been like two teenagers in love the last few days and gag at the thought. 

“Fine,” my dad relents with a huff and throws his hands in the air in defeat. “But I swear, if either one of you come back drunk, or high, or I don’t know...escorted by police, I’m locking you in separate rooms until next year.”

I beg my body to not laugh at my father’s piss poor attempt at being stern. Especially when it’s so obvious we both smoke a blunt to the face just minutes before. Especially because he can’t seem to realize I haven’t slept an entire night in just my bed. But I want to give him this moment, because at the end of the day...he’s trying. Maybe he isn’t the strict parent with established boundaries we shouldn’t dare to cross. And he’s in over his head with his son’s boyfriend living under his roof, and his wife trying to maintain sobriety despite the stressors around her, and his own issues with work, and family-

He needs a break. 

“You got it, Boss man,” Reno gives him a two finger salute, “We’ll be on our best behavior.” Reno offers me a wink before he disappears to get ready to meet up with the rest of the crew. 

My dad and I look at each other and he does look worn out. The crows feet near his eyes look like deep crevices which hold all his worry. He shakes his head and offers me a shrug. And a sudden burst of alien regret erupts in my chest. My dad and I struggled to understand our separate languages. And I learned early on that the less I said, the less he knew, the more I got away with. And maybe he needs to shoulder some of that blame himself- but I never exactly made shit easy for him. 

“Hey dad,” I say before I go to follow Reno upstairs, “You’re doing a good job.”

The smile that flicks across his face looks like a child on Christmas morning. “Yeah…not sure about that...” but there’s an uncertainty in his voice that shatters the image.

“I’m alive right?” I wince, dragging the sleeves of my shirt down, “And I’ve been thinking about what you said a while ago- about my future and college. Reno thinks I should do something with English or History since I like to argue about that kind of shit.”

“Heh, Reno should talk, huh?”

We exchange a strained laugh. And I plunge my hands in my pocket, suddenly feeling a rush of guilt. Or shame. Like a rock in the center of my sternum, my chest feels tight and I’m about to turn to walk upstairs when my dad continues:

“Reno burns bright,” he says, “just...don’t let his light over power yours, okay?…”

And I knit my brows together when I point my stare at him. Like I’m looking through the scope of a gun wondering if I should shoot back with some snide comment but I process his words instead. And take a moment to decipher his language. The half parent, half overgrown teenager who sacrificed his twenties. That cross between understanding some lessons need to be learned and knowing some of the answers. 

“Yeah...I won’t…” And for some reason, that sounded like a lie. 

* * *

People love Spring 

Attracted to the idea of what was dead returning to life-

Wishing they would be able to transcend nature’s law. 

But I found Spring to be suffocating with expectations of new beginnings, to cleanse our cluttered winters and weights on our shoulders.And there’s just entirely too much pressure to make changes, begin anew. My mother always went away in the Spring. Came back refreshed for the Summer. Where the bbqs and family obligations would drag her to Fall. And then we would be stuck in an eternal winter- the tensions in the house chilling us to the very core of our souls. Spring never brought reprieve. Spring never offered a clean slate. Nah. 

Spring tasted sour. Like rhubarb pie. Like too many lemons. That made my face scrunch to the mere idea of the season. Much like my face seemed to contort at the idea of being in public. 

We walk down the darkening street. The houses flickering to life as inhabitants get ready for late dinners or settle in for the evening news detailing yet another tragedy to befall the world. The wind carries the smell of cut grass and the aftertaste of dewy cold. The trees that line Benedict Road are lush with green foliage, putting the final familiar touches on this Staten Island Evening. The remnants of Easter decorations still adorn some of the house windows we can see from the sidewalk. Smaller mansions but still an example of human over abundance with their wrapped driveways and luxury vehicles. 

Reno and I stick out in this neighborhood- me more than him despite his red hair alerting the world of his existence. He’s got on those ripped jeans from earlier, white v-neck and black Under Armour jacket; and I couldn’t help but call him out for looking like a Staten Island douchebag complete with the chain that  _ I  _ bought him for his birthday. And he didn’t waste time with a quip that my jeans are so tight he can see the outline of my dick if he squints and at least he doesn’t have to worry about any chick coming for me with my  _ creepy ass  _ Slipknot shirt under  _ our _ black hoodie. And did I really need the fingerless gloves with the outline of boney fingers? And how my barbed wire chain, the one  _ he _ bought me, seemed to be an outside reminder of how I felt on the inside. 

And I could have corrected him about making assumptions about my feelings.

But he’s right. 

We walk in silence, sharing my Ipod headphones as David Bowie sings:  _ Ground control to Major Tom _ . Close enough to feel the heat of his body, the smell of his Armani cologne. He does burn bright; and that flame melts the ice around me which acts like a shield.And I note his thumbs are nestled in his pockets; his slender fingers tapping along to the tunes on the outside of his jeans. And I want nothing more than to reach over and grab his hand. 

But the outside world, hidden by the blackening sky, has too many orange street lamps to illuminate our affection. And maybe this neighborhood isn’t ready just yet...and I hide my hands in the pocket of my hoodie instead. The cold enveloping my fingers like tiny knives. 

The thirty minute walk felt quicker than I remembered and the rumble of cars flying down Hylan Boulevard hum in the distances. I halt before the lights from traffic stops and white Nissans could appear at the bottom of the hill and pull the headphones from our ears. Reno turns with a raised brow and confusion etched across his face. 

“Can I ask you a personal question?” my voice shivers, keeping my eyes focused on the task of wrapping the black Ipod in it’s wired headphones. And when I look up, he has his trademark smirk. 

“Well considering you just had my dick in your mouth, I think we are well past having to ask that question.”

I roll my eyes with a snap. “Ugh , you’re such a fucking asshole.” I plunge the technology into my pocket, deciding against asking anything personal ever again if he’s going to be a vulgar fuck about it, and try to brush past him.

But he grabs my shoulders, rooting me to the spot, while small laughs fall like tiny raindrops from his mouth. “Alright, alright, sorry. Shit. What’s going on withcha?”

I stifle the groan that rattles my throat. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

“Was that the personal question-”

“ _ Reno _ ,” I growl, but he’s unfazed. Never losing his grin as he runs his hands down my arms; however he stops at my wrists- not hands- and lingers there. “You’re in a good mood, tonight.” I observe, hiding the almost bitter resentment I have towards his happy demeanor. Maybe it was a taste of jealousy. My fear has been bubbling to the surface as the days dragged on; exasperated as we walked closer to our destination. 

Everyone knew. And I didn’t know how I felt about that…

But Reno’s dropped gaze startles me from my thoughts. His smile wavers to a pursed frown. And he shrugs, “Needed to get the fuck out of there…”

“You know you can leave at any time…”

He scoffs, “And go where? Got no one to chill with and I ain’t tryin to wander around alone.”

“What about Rude and Tseng? Aren’t you still cool with them…” But that was a weak counter at best, and the frustrated laugh from my boyfriend confirms that feeling. He flat out refused my mother’s offer to get a phone so he could even call either of those friends. Put his foot down that he wasn’t some charity case and we needed to stop treating him like fragile boy- even if his eyes resembled glass when he came face to face with the reminder of his past glaring over the fence and subtle flinches still rippled through his face when something triggered those painful memories still locked in the back of his throat. 

And even if I knew from Tifa and Aerith, who called on their respected boyfriends’ behalf, that both Rude and Tseng only wanted to look out for the red-head, he didn’t share the same opinion. 

“Dunno anymore,” he whispers.

And I knew why he found it difficult to reach out to either of them.

“I’m scared too…”

“I ain’t scared of shit.”

“This is new for both of us…” I press, finding some hidden strength I didn’t know existed until Reno began to falter. “I get it. You don’t want to call your friends because you’re scared. It’s okay to be scared. Scared doesn’t mean weak, Reno. Fight or flight has been human instinct since the dawn of man. It’s survival. And this has been survival for you for the last few years--”

But he unhooks one of his hands to wave away my statement, “Gotta argue with everything I say, yo.”

“You don’t think I understand…” I frown, “I’m not sure how my friends are gonna react.”

Now he laughs, a cutting chuckle that slices through the hum of silence. “Come on, babe, they don’t give a fuck...you know that.”

“How can you be sure? This will be the first time they really see us together…”

“Wow,” he cuts me off, the gentle shake of his head, “you really have no idea what happened that night...did no one tell you?”

I mirror his confused look. And have to toil through shattered memories for the night in question; and all I can think of is the night that set off this domino effect which led us here. To this moment. Underneath a twilight blue sky with flickering artificial lights heading towards my group of friends, together. The night’s events, and the aftermath were anything but pretty. “What do you mean?”

He ponders the question. Face blank like sheet of paper. Until a small smirk crawls around his face. “I’ll tell you when you’re older…”

“Wooooow,” I shout, gently shoving him, “You suck-”

“Just your-”

“Don’t even start.” I sigh, “Fuck, you distracted me- I forgot the actual question.”

“Ha, mission accomplished then,” he kicks my leg, “come on, quit stalling. I want to make Highwind jealous as fuck.” 

I didn’t forget. I wanted to ask him about the former friends. The ones from his home State with no names. No faces. Empty vessels he’s spoken about in passing. Carefully navigated his past, avoiding all the potholes which hold their stories, and shutting down any inquiry from me. Maybe that’s why he can’t bring himself to talk to Rude or Tseng. And clearly something happened that resides in the darkness of my own memories which gives him the confidence that my friends won’t toss us away. 

I sigh as he continues our journey. Walk alongside him until the intersection of Hylan and Seaview comes into view. 

The clouds overhead roll over the painted sky, contrasting the cars jetting down the street with disregard for human life. 

Blaring Hip Hop that vibrates the concrete below our feet. 

Sounds of New York accents shouting over exhausts and the crazy can lady’s tin jingling within her shopping cart. 

Warm air.

Cigarette smoke and trash.

Staten Island at twilight.

Proving even magic exists in hell--

I shelve the question beating against my lips. Deciding we have the rest of our lives to comb through painful memories. 

Now...now our future rests in the black tar parking lot of a shitty Wendy's Restaurant. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit. Almost three weeks D: Thank you for everyone on tumblr who has seen my vents on tumblr and offering support! Honestly, I don't think this chapter would have be posted. Honestly, I had about 12 pages originally, trashed them, and started over. Now I have 17 pages of...I don't know. Character development? This means there's actually, I think, about four chapters left? I have no idea. haha. Everything has been insane between work and school. 
> 
> But honestly, I kind of like what I have here. Would love to know what you all think! Feedback would be helpful, but totally understand if you can't! There's no time to do anything. But as long as maybe you got something out of this chapter, maybe a smile, maybe enjoyed this moment of living in 2004 and not the shit show of 2020, then I did my job.
> 
> Fun fact, I told my students I am writing a book. they think I'm weird for liking to write haha.


	40. Whenever I Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And I'm not sure what the trouble was  
>  That started all of this  
> The reasons all have run away  
> But the feeling never did  
> It's not something I would recommend  
> But it is one way to live  
> 'Cause what is simple in the moonlight  
> By the morning never is_  
> "Lua" by Bright Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW/CW:  
> Homophobic language.   
> References to suicide attempt.

Staten Island comes to life when the sun disappears over the brown brick buildings scraping the skyline. Hylan is a mess of activity as mirages of white cars blur down the street, illuminated by street lights. The hum of planes are drowned out by the hip hop blasting from strained speakers. Shaking the ground beneath our feet. Businesses and homes twinkle like stars as the Thursday Night crowd, patrons itching for the eve of the weekend, traverse the sidewalks towards their destinations. Smiles and conversations powered by bastardized New York accents. The sky above us ripples like waves of twilight. The smell of exhaust and trash and overpriced, overprocessed, pseudo-meat fills the air. And there’s a sense of comfort, being wrapped in this blanket of familiarity...

“I’m just saying, how do you know you ain’t gay if you never sucked a dick?”

I shut my eyes and take a breath.

We’re fifteen minutes in. 

We just finished exchanging overdue and booming greetings with the five boys playing hack in the filthy parking lot of a Wendys. 

And I just got comfortable against the wall of the establishment engrossed in the subtle beauty of Staten Island, when Reno utters that line. 

I open my eyes with an accompanying huff. Cid stands across from my boyfriend. Arms folded over his chest. He’s wearing a black denim vest with a  _ Dead Kennedys _ patch on the back and spikes on shoulders over a white long sleeve. His eyes are narrowed at the red-head, more with confusion than disgust. 

“How you figure?” Cid asks. 

“How you know you don’t like it if you never tried it?”

Cid cocks his head, really taking in Reno’s words, as the red-head blows black smoke into the air with a smile. 

“Nah,” Barret interjects, “I don’t need to suck a dick to know I ain’t gay.” Then he looks at me, sitting on the floor with my back against the building shaking my head. “No disrespect if you like that though, man.”

I sigh, more in disbelief that my boyfriend decided on this line of questioning. “It’s cool, don’t fucking listen to him.”

“Hey!” Reno snaps, “I ain’t wrong.”

I hate the inflection in his tone. Like he’s using what I told him earlier against me. But when my lips fall to a stern frown, he rolls his eyes. Back to Cid, who is really standing there with contemplation splashed across his face. 

“He isn’t,” Vincent, who doesn’t pull his eyes from Biggs and Wedge bouncing the knitted bead ball between the two of them, mutters indifferently.

The four of us snap our heads at the solemn raven haired boy sitting on the bumper of a strangers broken down Ford as the chilling wind blows through long strands of greasy locks. He’s dressed in Hot Topic’s finest red Tripp pants and tattered Korn hoodie he’s had since 1999. Vincent darts his hooded eyes at us, thin lips curl with a bored expression on his face.

“You sucked a dick once?” Cid finally gathers the balls to ask. 

“Yeah.”

“Why?” From Barret who recoils. 

“Wanted to see what it felt like.” He looks away. Biggs and Wedge are oblivious to the conversation surrounding them; their attention stolen by the epic game of hacky sack. 

“So...you’re gay?” Cid tiptoes.

“No.”

“But-”

“Like he said,” Vinny sighs, “how can you be sure if you never tried it? 

“Not a fan?” I pipe up. 

“Nah, just not for me.”

“Bro!” Reno laughs, “straight up, this is the first time I’ve ever actually heard you talk and that’s what you come up with? The fuck?”

But Vinny doesn’t answer, his lips seal shut as always and his focus returns exclusively towards the two other boys in our group. Stunned silence. The only sound from the bean bag hitting the sides of dirty converses. Which echo above the white noise from the street. Though after several seconds of contemplation, I realize I’m not surprised. 

“ _ To weird to live, to rare to die _ , Vinny,” I quote the great Hunter S, and black haired boy throws me the devil horns in response. 

As if coming out of a trance, Cid looks at me, “Yo Cloud, lemme suck your dick real quick.”

“Woah, bro,” Reno shouts, “Not cool man!”

“What?!?” Cid sputters in shock. “I’ve known him way fuckin’ longer than yous been together!”

“I’m fuckin standin’ right here man,” Reno growls, eyes dangerous and volatile. “My dick ain’t good enough for you?”

“I don’t know where that fuckin’ things been!”

“Seriously? Literally in your friend’s-”

“ **Reno!”** My voice slices through the air. Sick of his shit. Sick of his shit eating grin he flashes me. Cid starts laughing, holding his stomach at my response as if my frustration is just so fucking amusing. 

“God dammit, Highwind, you got me in trouble again, yo!” But Cid flips him off through his raining chuckles while Reno returns to me. Crouching down, in between my legs this time, cigarette between those smirking lips, and eyes shining like the bulbs of Christmas lights. “What’s with that face?”

“You’re being vulgar,” I scold. Even if my friends seem unfazed by the conversation, returning to the previous myriad of topics including what to do tonight, how they’re gonna get more weed, and where they can land with the most chicks. 

“Stop being sensitive.” Reno removes the stick from his mouth and offers me a drag as a peace offering. 

“You’re comfortable around them.” I accept, taking a sharp inhale of harsh reds that claw at my throat 

He shrugs, “and you’re not?”

I throw a look at Cid and Barret, standing a few yards from us. Their voices like harsh whispers cutting through the wind. So unperturbed by the previous dialog, it felt almost unreal. I frown, “We just don’t usually discuss blowjobs so candidly. And I didn’t really expect you to be so...forward.”

“Really? You  _ didn’t _ expect forward from the guy who cornered you in the bathroom a week after meeting you?” He takes a drag. “Now, I ain’t gotta hide shit anymore. Better prepare yourself, pretty boy.”

“For you to be an obnoxious boyfriend?”

“You got it.”

Reno flashes a small, almost understanding, smile when he sees the way my face contorts and takes a seat next to me on the dirt covered floor. Close enough where our legs brush against one another.

My heart still like the collapsing of time. 

While Discomfort coils around my throat like a noose. 

And I can’t help but move my eyes at the other boys in the group- waiting. 

But Biggs and Wedge are joined by Vinny in hacky sack, while Barret and Cid stare at their phones- fingers rapidly texting. No uncomfortable glares. I fiddle with my own fingers, wondering if I should dare to scoot closer to Reno. And I sense the magnetic field pulling me closer- something I find myself fighting. And all I can manage is giving myself permission to rest my wistful blues on him. The red-head leans his head against the brick wall of the fast food chain; glued to the changing clouds overhead and adding the smoke dripping from between his lips into the atmosphere. His eyes reflect the rising moon casting an ethereal glow across his face. 

And I try to remind myself the water in my lungs doesn't exist. 

And wonder if following his gaze to the abyss of space would make this petty anxiety seem small...

The sparkle of stars come into view as night engulfs the sun. We share the cigarette, the last of our combined stash of various bad habits. And no more disposable income to continue our vices. 

Reality sets in--

And every white orb in the blue sea represents another new problem. 

Got to find a job. Got to get a car. 

Got to find out which school I’m going to in the fall-my academic future hanging by frayed thread. And I tear at my cuticles. 

Stomach flips at my precarious future. 

Parents have a conference with my school on Monday to discuss whether I will graduate with the Saint Sebastain’s Academy stamp of approval. Or be tossed out.

And I can’t understand the internal conflict; spent my entire high school career shitting on the institution. Now on the precipice of freedom, I am reluctant. 

Maybe it’s spite. 

A rough elbow in my side shudders the thoughts and I look at the owner of the limb. Reno’s eyes are two small slits of glimmering blue as he snaps, “You gonna chew your lip off if you think any harder, yo.”

I want to ask how he can continue to be so aloof about his own uncertain next steps. Just floating on a river, letting the current take him to whatever destination. He’s comfortable with the outcome, regardless of how disappointing it had been; and while I do catch him, at times, with the same forlorn expression he sports now, as he smokes away his fears, he never allows me to pry. Replaces his scowl with a smirk. 

The crack of Converses on gravel signal Cid and Barret's approach. 

“Kyrie’s having a party,” Cid announces, not looking up from his phone, “And her brother’s back from college so they’ll be hot college chicks there.”

“As if you have a shot,” Barret mocks. “Everyone’s gonna be there apparently.”

“Who’s everyone?” Reno asks. 

But Barret pauses for a moment, scanning his dark eyes between the two of us, “ _ Everyone _ .”

Reno clicks his tongue in response with a disruptive smile on his face, “Well doesn’t that just sound like a barrel of bobcats.”

“Is that a good thi-”

“Woah!” Cid shouts, “You think I don’t have a shot with some fine ass college chick!”

“Bro! You barely have a shot with chicks from our school!”

The two of them devolve into a debate on Cid’s game with the ladies (one which I can admit has been lacking since his breakup with Shera). And while they seem set on going to the small house near South Beach, the idea of returning to one of the scenes of my many crimes doesn’t feel as alluring. Especially when  _ everyone _ would be in attendance, including all those enemies I’ve accumulated. Reno, however, has a devious look sketched across his face. 

“You want to go?” I ask with slight bewilderment. 

He shrugs, “College kids have better weed and we need to stock up.”

“Yeah? With what money?”

“I got us covered for a while, don’t worry.”

I arch an eyebrow, “How? Got some secret stash you haven’t told me about?”

He flicks the cigarette away, “Said don’t worry about it, yo!”

I open my mouth to argue but I am cut off once again, this time by the glare of headlights stabbing my eyes with a jolt. And I witness a familiar black BMW crawl into an empty parking space near our cluster of hooligans. When the engine’s killed the doors fly open and a giggle of girls spring from the back seat. And Yuffie and Jessie skip towards the group, arm in arm. 

“Fucking finally,” Reno jumps up to greet his cousin who exits the vehicle with a long exhale.

Yuffie breaks into the hack circle, close to Vincent, while Jessie sets her sights on Cid- the blonde leaning against the car that had once been occupied by Vinny- and I can’t help but notice her outfit. The tight red and checkered pants with chains jingling as she sways her hips, topped with a destroyed  _ Green Day _ tank top that falls right at the hem of her bottoms. And if Cid didn’t have his eyes currently fixated on the raven hair girl strolling towards the boys- in tight black ripped jeans and wearing the same  _ Korn _ shirt I bought her- maybe he would have noticed Jessie’s bedroom eyes which flickered in his direction.

But I don’t blame him for drawn into the dark radiance which exudes from Tifa. I haven’t seen her since my piss-poor apology. Only heard her voice when she called on behalf of Rude to inquire about Reno’s mental state. Our conversations tense. Reduced to quick Q and As and nothing in between. Some sprinkles of attempts to ask about each other, but shut down just as quickly. And I can’t help but wonder if my voice triggers destructive memories. And if I feel like shit from the mere thought, how must she feel?

She doesn’t offer a look in my direction.

But I catch the glare she shoots at my boyfriend as they pass one another silently. 

Interesting.

I follow Reno to the car, where he and Rude exchange a bro-shake.

“Took your ass long enough,” Reno snaps while Rude digs in the backseat of the vehicle. 

“Had to pick up Tifa and her friends. They had me driving all over this fuckin’ island,” Rude mutters before handing Reno a black shoe box, “Better count it to make sure it’s all there. Yuffie has sticky fingers.” 

Reno opens the box, pulling out a wad of green bills, with a sneaky smile on his face. “Thanks, partner.”

“Are you fucking serious?” My question lunges at him like a vexed animal. 

“What?!?” He looks up at me feigned confusion. But my lips are curled and teeth clenched, so he relents. “Been savin’ up trying to leave that place for a long time; think we can leave it at that?”

“How did you get all that?”

He shifts through some of the bills, tucking the box under his shoulder, and hands Rude a 50 dollar bill uttering a, “Go buy your lady a personality or some shit,” before returning to me. “How many times I gotta say-”

“You really ain’t gonna tell me how you got all that money,” I push, arms over my chest. I try to control the edge that sharpens my voice, hide some of my fluster behind a tense smile. “Like I don’t know how unemployed seventeen year olds can get cash like that fast.”

He wavers slightly and I note there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes that I’ve caught in other situations where he felt backed into a corner. “Yeah? You got somethin’ on your mind?” he closes the box and places it back into the car. Throwing Rude a silent look, letting him know he’s our ride later on tonight. 

And I realize there’s so much about Reno that remains a mystery.

Another addition to a pile of variables. 

A small huff gives away my displeasure and 

I’m running out of words to describe how it feels when he looks at me. Torn with indecision. I’m reminded of the day he drove me home and how I offered him the same look.. On the threshold of wanting to tell the whole story, but unsure of the outcome. 

But he leans against his former car and gives me something. “What did I tell you when we first got together? I’ve done some shit, too...” I can taste the slight hint of sour on his tongue when he pulls that memory from several months ago- when a night like this seemed like an unattainable dream. 

And while I hate this new unknown I’m entering; I gotta just accept I’ll have the rest of my life to hear all his stories. 

“So,” Rude tucks the fifty into his wallet, his tone cautious as if slowly trying to pull the attention from the money away from our attention. And my lips crash to a frown. “you guys hear about the party tonight?”

“Yeah Kyrie’s,” Reno answers, flicking his lighter and running his tongue behind his teeth trying to find remnants of nicotine he’s gone minutes without. 

“Nah, Elena’s.”

At the sound of her name, my chest suspiciously clenches. Added anxiety when I watch Reno slowly lift his head, look off distance- eyes shaking at the green dumpsters and brown aluminum fence--

“Shit….”

I tilt my head, “What?”

“I forgot to break up with, Elena….”

“Excuse me?!”

“What!?” He shouts as if my outburst offends, but it sure as hell shouldn’t, “I don’t have a phone!? How was I supposed to tell her!”

“Don’t worry, bro,” Rude says, “I think she knows. She deleted you from Myspace and her AIM away messages are a bunch of sad lyrics.”

“Oh come the fuck on…”

“Last week it was:  _ So much for my happy ending  _ with a broken heart-”

Reno grumbles, running his fingers through his hair. 

“-And this week it’s:  _ broken up deep inside//but you won’t see the tears I cry//behind these hazel eyes. _ ”

“Her eyes aren’t even hazel!?” He pauses, “Wait, are they?”

“Wow, you are a terrible boyfriend.” I roll my eyes.

Reno scowls, “No. I’m a terrible  _ person _ . I’m a  _ fantastic _ boyfriend.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets to Rude’s chorus of chuckles, and throws me some faux pitiful blue eyes that beg in silence for forgiveness he need not ask of me. I’m not really mad despite the tightness of my arms over my chest and the sparked glare I try to ignite in his direction- no need to make this entirely easy for him. But I understand, unfortunately. I tear my eyes from his and look at Tifa. 

And to think I’ve made that same mistake twice. Three times if I include Jessie, who sits a little too close to Cid as he shifts uncomfortably- while his own eyes glue to the raven-haired girl's lips as she regals him with her tales. 

The webs we tangle at such a young age. 

I ruined a potential love story because I couldn’t accept myself. Cid would never explicitly tell me it was my fault- but I know. I know.

I know enough...and I get to live with unfortunate knowledge. Feel the rise of crushing guilt when I hear Tifa’s voice. Exasperated by now having to watch her actively ignore my presence. When before, she would run to me- throw her arms around my neck as if seeing me for the first time in years even if I had been a day. And when she was pissed all it had taken were wide doe eyes and some kind of physical content to melt that anger away. She sensed my devastating sadness and would make herself present as much as possible. Pulled my hair back when I threw up all my woes. The sacrifices she made in friendships I’ve destroyed weren’t met with gratitude. And when I tried to take my own life, her eyes sprung like an uncontrolled river.

And in return....I embarrassed her in such a violent way. Exposed her vulnerability and exploited it-

And I swallow the rush of nausea. 

“Hey,” Reno’s voice rattles me. “Don’t sweat it, babe...”

Rude leaves without another word to stand next to his girlfriend and wrap a strong, muscular arm around her thin waist. And my heart cracks for Cid this time. 

“She’ll fucking get over it soon,” He continues.

“Should she?” I counter, “I did something fucked up.”

“Was it though?…”

“You don’t know what I did.”

“ _ You _ don’t know what you did,” he hisses, “It wasn’t that bad.”

I pause. Note the rising resentment that climbs up my chest. I don’t fucking know what I did; not really. Just broken memories sewed together by words from others involved. Every story similar with different surrounding contexts. And Tifa offers me bare bones with vague details. “Maybe it wasn’t bad. But it was bad to her and that’s all the matters. So, if she doesn’t forgive me, it’s because of  _ me _ not her.”

I note his frustrated sigh, and even if I don’t see the way his eyes roll, I can feel them tumble over me. Reno means well; he’s doing this because he cares about me. And he knows how it’s hurt having her be so distant. 

But it’s out of both our control.

And I begin to regret coming out.

Especially with votes for the party continuing to file in. Even Vinny, who usually hates the idea of socializing with anyone, agrees to crash Kyrie’s party. Jessie and Yuffie will do anything Tifa wants to do- both throwing me dirty looks over the conversation. Tifa asks Rude, who blushes and squeezes her tighter, and just says it’s up to her. The new leader of the brigade.

Cid shouts a resounding yes, because he needs to get  _ fucked _ up.

And Barret flashes me an exasperated look as he realizes his job will be babysitting the wild blonde next to him. 

Two more outside votes from Aerith blowing up my phone- apparently Elena’s get together was slowly turning into a Hate Reno and Cloud party and Aerith almost knocked her teeth out. Tseng had to drag her out of there kicking and screaming. 

“Do you want to go,” Reno inquires, still flicking the lighter after I hang up on Aerith. 

The sounds of ongoing plans being made were hard to ignore- even if they weren’t directed at me- and I consider the options. Reno and I could walk amongst the Staten Island street lights looking for something to do until the clock strikes twelve and I have to go home anyway or we could risk getting overzealous at Kyrie’s party- getting too fucked up and having a rerun of last time- breaking curfew and never be allowed to grace the outside world until college. 

But something called out to me. 

There’s magic in the air from making plans on a weeknight- like a call back to summer shenagenins. Against the chilly backdrop of a struggling Spring.

And things wouldn’t be the same as last time. Impossible. When I’ll be walking in with the group of friends and my boyfriend without the terror of being found out fueling my self-destruction. 

I scan Reno’s form. Hands in his pockets, body weight on the back driver’s side door with an unreadable look on his face. And I recall how he said he needed to get out; crushed under sight of his house across the fence. 

“Let’s go,” I agree and he smirks. “It’ll be like...I don’t know...a last hurrah for me.”

“Right,” he scoffs, “Like they’re gonna keep you grounded for much longer.”

“You sure you wanna do this though?”

“I’m not sure about shit, pretty boy.” And then he takes a step closer to me and links his middle finger with mine like he did when we walked back to his car from Jonny’s. And how easy doubt can evaporate. “But I know I ain’t a pussy and I know you and Cid owe Rude and I a rematch. So we’re gonna go to this shitty party, I’m gonna kick your ass in beer pong, and then we’ll go home.”

I want to kiss him so bad right now. Under the moonlight, face lit up with all his bad thoughts. But...we’re not there just yet. 

Soon, though. And my body warms at the thought. 

* * *

The party is underway by the time our mismatched group shows up. Bodies spilling outside the lawn and scattered along the stoop. Sidewalk occupied by smokers of both legal and illegal substances; their conversations breaking into the other wise silent night. Kyrie’s neighbors, high school dropouts and dealers, are the only reason the cops- with the precinct literally down the street- don’t make regular appearances. A party in South Beach, even on a weeknight, is a common enough occurrence that doesn’t warrant the boys in the blue- within reason. 

But it usually just takes one drunk asshole to collapse this house of cards. 

We make our way inside. And all the cast of characters are here:

Johnny bastardizes “Jumper” on a guitar in the middle of the living room. 

Leslie emerges from the kitchen, takes one look at Reno, and sprints out the back door. His buddies following close behind, with scowls directed at the two of us. 

I spot Kadaj, Loz, and Yazoo,by the fireplace with alcohol eyes. They watch us as we walk past them, legs wobbling like tree trunks caught in a tornado, and turn their backs. A huddled mass of trembling hares. And Reno chuckles at their behavior. 

Kyrie and, who I assume is, her brother fight in the kitchen over the mix of friends. We pass by Cissnei and Reeve flirting by the counter; and I offer her a sad smile when our eyes meet but she shakes her head and returns to her conversation with Reeve. 

And fuck that’s  _ embarassing _ . 

Angeal and Gen have the beer pong table on lock in the backyard; going up against two girls from school who I recognize as seniors. And once again, I feel the unease of too many bodies, and too many personalities, locked in a bottle ready to explode. I scan the faces of my friends, relaxed as they break off into the sea of people, finding some of their other connections. 

Everyone knows everyone. It’s hard to avoid. 

Aerith storms upstairs, with Tseng on her tail, and immediately sees us in the sea of teenagers. She smiles from ear to ear, her long brown hair in a high ponytail. She adorns a white and pink floral summer dress with matching powder pink sweater and I notice the addition of a heart necklace around her neck. Aerith practically knocks me down, throwing her whole body against mine. Arms around me and she squeezes.

“Aer, you’re literally killing me-”

“I missed you so much!”

I smile; but it quickly extinguishes when Tifa bumps into the both of us mumbling under her breath something wicked, following the rest of the group to the yard. I falter but gently pat Aerith on the back, appreciating the welcoming. She gives Reno much the same greeting though he pretends to be annoyed by her affection with a tense eye roll and rapid taps on her lower back to get her off him. 

It felt good to see her; I never got a chance to thank her in person for staging a walk out in the effort to salvage our future at the Academy, even if it was mostly a fruitless endeavor. But she waves off my attempts- arguing that it was for the greater good. Bigger than even just Reno and I- but for all the students still in the closet, terrified. That hopefully seeing at least most of the Junior class walk out on behalf of us would let them know...they weren’t alone. 

Then she adds, after taking a large sip of the drink Tseng held for her, that Sister Lucia had actually pissed her off for the last time when she took Kadaj’s side in an altercation. So Aerith, being as dainty as a venus fly trap, chucked a bible at Kadaj’s face, and started chanting  _ Attica, Attica! _ Until the rest of the class, overcome by her outburst, joined her. Thus resulting in the walk out that Spring afternoon. 

“Why  _ Attica?” _

“I don’t know, I saw it in a movie,” she admits.

“Was it  _ Dog Day Afternoon? _ ”

“Uh, sure whatever.”

“You don’t even know the movie you were stealing that line from?” I shake my head.

“Whatever, it sounded good and I looked good doing it!” She shouts over the growing house volume. “Of course, I got detention with that creep Hojo because of it, but at least I don’t have to take Religion with that homophobic piece of shit.”

“Damn, you’re fucking scary when you’re pissed,” I laugh, “Don’t ever change.”

Aerith winks with a soft chuckle. But Reno seems less than amused by the antics- apparently unhappy his name was dragged around the school in the name of justice. 

We’re offered beers from our benefactor, Cid, who stole them from the fridge. I stare at the bottle of pale liquid. Swirl it around. Look at the vortex for answers to more unasked questions. But acknowledge I’m looking for something that can’t be found at the bottom of a bottle. I lean against a wall, next to Reno, facing the outside sliding door with the view of the table. The roar of competition floods into the house. Behind us, the living room erupts with requests for new music from Johnny. Someone has taken control of the radio in the kitchen, and the top 40s of 2005 mix with the broken conversations. Like a whirlpool of sounds. Both familiar and new. Comforting and alien.

Time ticks closer to Midnight. And debauchery already underway. 

We eventually made it to the beer pong table after Rude and Reno put down Angeal and Genesis. And after their exit, the first whisper of Sephiroth’s attendance reached my ears. 

But I ignored the sentence, went up against my boyfriend and his cousin.

“Strip pong?” Cid offered, throwing me a wink.

“Nah, chill,” Reno objected, “I see the way you look at my boyfriend. I ain’t giving you a free show.”

“Dammit. You got me!”

The game lasted too long. For sure. From the groans of girls who wanted their chance. And other boys who kept periodically checking. Accusing us of delaying. Bunch of bounces, met with slaps of balls, rolls backs where our bodies collided. Warm beer after warm beer. Paired with fresh beers from Barret. A shot challenge by Rude the cherry on the cake, but I, even if my haze, kindly declined with a dramatic wave of my hand and Cid all too happy to take one for the team. 

Our downfall coming at his hand.

And when we did our walk of shame, and I watched the two girls replace us, the second hint of Sephiroth's existence whispers in the wind. And it became harder to ignore.

We walk inside the bubble. The typical scene. The screeching voices overpowering the radio. Hand slaps and curses. You’d think a fight is brewing within the walls, but this is normal. I lose Cid in the crowd. He’s eye set on a group of girls in the corner who shoot him suggestive looks over their red solo cups. I scan the house for signs of my friends. Tifa had vanished along with Jessie and Yuffie as soon as we got here-- probably smoking on the front stoop with my name on their tongue. I had a small eruption of desire to find her, but I swallowed that down with the rest of the alcohol. I spot Aerith and Tseng by the fireplace, harsh whispers escaping their lips- typical. There’s three other couples doing the same thing. 

About that time.

I stumble down the hallway, pass by Vinny who perches up against the wall with Biggs and Wedge, all three acknowledging me- and Vin’s warning is the third time Sephiroth’s name reaches my ears. My chest clenches but it loosen it with another long sip of beer. Sephiroth can be here. Or doesn’t have to be here. He can be anywhere on this island. Or in my face. And it wouldn’t matter. 

In the bathroom, I find some quiet. 

Flick on the light and take a deep breath. And when I open my eyes, I look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks rosy from the alcohol coursing through my veins and maybe even a little bloodshot from the weed earlier. Little blue marbles in a red sea. 

It’s somehow easier to breathe tonight than in the past. I recall the last time I was here, how I burst from the bathroom on a mission. Taking down everything in my path. Wasn’t the first time. But hopefully the last. 

And I know, from an outsider’s perspective- and I’m sure my parents wouldn’t be thrilled that I’m high and drinking a beer in an acquaintances bathroom- I’m repeating old mistakes. Learning no lessons from my previous actions. And I should know better by now. But I’m not drinking to bury my problems. And I’m not forcing the same mask on my face, one I’ve had sewn on for years, until it pulled and tore at my skin. I’m free of those constraints. 

I realize a smile twitches at my lips. And the phone in my pocket reads a time which suggests our inevitable exit. And I feel more ready for whatever the next chapter has in store.

I exit the bathroom, this time not on a mission to fuel my woes, but to see if Reno could walk away a champion from pong and get his cousin to drive us home. Weed acquired, burning a hole in my pocket already. Deep in thought. 

It takes a full second to register the hands slamming on my shoulders. 

And I know the owner even before he tosses me into a darkened bedroom.

Before his voice overtakes the silence.

I stumble over some discarded boxes, stopping myself against the window. The light of the moon drenches the room in a blue glow. And casting shadows over the face of my tormentor. Standing in the center. 

“It’s good to see you, Cloud.”

I suddenly feel pulled under water. Coldness catching my lungs. 

“Sephiroth…” His name pieces my lips. I haven’t seen him since our altercation at the school yard. Rumors swirled about the aggravated wound putting him out of commission, again. Absent for days. And questions of the cause were silence when the rumors of Reno and I swarmed like locust through the halls. Forgotten. Even by the friends he sent to dispose of us. Taken down swiftly. And I had been so engrossed with my own life, that his memory became a faded blurry picture. 

All changed now, when he takes a step into the light. His eyes glow a sinister green, a smirk trembles along his face. Time slows. I don’t hear anything behind the walls. And I anticipate some shitty remark to fall from this lips. Something snide. Demeaning. Probably homophobic. I prep my brain for the seeds he will attempt to plant. And refuse to water them with my own insecurities. 

But Sephiroth is done with words.

I don’t see the first punch until his fist is in my face. And luckily he’s using his left arm and I dodge the full force- him clipping the side of my mouth. I lose my balance- cursing my alcohol consumption as I tumble into a dresser sending some items to the fall with a crash. 

And a new emergence from the bottom of my soul. 

The same sensation when I heard my boyfriend’s name leave his mouth. 

So, this time when he tries to grab my neck, I swing back- the vibration of his face meeting my fist trembles up my arm, to my chest like an earthquake.

He falls back, with a disturbed laugh, “Fuck that right hook.” He wipes his face, blood trickling down his lip. He looks at the liquid, then at me, “Wonder who taught you that?”

My jaw clenches. “Some bitch ass.”

“Hn,” he cracks his neck, “That so?”

Sephiroth seems unsteady on his feet as he approaches me, and I notice the dilated pupils as he towers over me- trapped in the corner like an animal. And even with him half on this plane of reality, he still, for some reason, renders me frozen. I try to keep myself a stone structure. Maintain eye contact. What’s the worst he could? Fucking kill me?

“I’m off the baseball team because of you and your faggot boy toy,” he snarls.

And I, despite now realizing he is probably contemplating all the ways he could kill me, snort in his face. “Seriously? You’re gonna blame  _ me _ because you can’t play baseball this year? That’s the reason for this fucking spectactle?”

But he doesn’t find me amusing. His left hand on my neck and I’m slammed against the dresser, smacking the back of my head. “You fucked up my pitching arm!”

“You fucked up your pitching arm trying to challenge a car you fuck!” I gasp out, “How many drugs were you on, huh!? You can’t blame me for your shit decisions.”

“You should talk. You’ve been spinning the same shit for years; blaming me for everything. Manipulating everyone around you with that sad, pathetic, story.”

“You’re kidding me right now…”

“Everything is my fault, right? Making you cry like a bitch. Making you deal drugs even though that was  _ your  _ idea. I’m the reason you and your girl broke up, even though you treated her like shit, and liked fucking dick on top of that! I’m the reason you’re depressed. Why you slit your fucking wrist-”

“Yo, fuck you, Sephiorth!” I find my hidden voice and it scratches at my throat. I use my strength to overpower his weak arm. Shove him off me. “That ain’t gonna work on me. You’re not gonna stand there and act like you didn’t push me when I said no; or make me feel like shit if I went against anything you wanted. Manipulative? That’s fucking hilarious, bro.”

“I,” his voice low, “protected you.”

“Yeah, right, out of the goodness of your heart?”

A deafening pause envelops the room. Only broken by the chaos leaking from the backyard. The sounds of boys yelling in victory. The living room bodies, still singing off key to “Sugar, We’re Going Down.” And Sephiroth smirks and takes a step back. “Heh...you’re right, actually. I only put up with you ‘cause of what you offered. You have the house with the shitty parents who don’t give a fuck what we do. You have the drugs. What other reason would I, or anyone else, have to fuck with you?” Another pause. A crack of glass shatters from somewhere in the house. “Your money. Your stash. No one actually gives a shit about you, Strife. Just what you offer them. Your friends, the girls that jump on your dick. Even that twink is only with you for shelter. Bet how far he’d run to get away from such a desperate, pathetic, fuck.

“Don’t forget, Cloud, you’re nothing without me.”

I want to say, those words didn’t hurt. I want to say that at no point did I even consider any of the vile claims which fell from his thin lips had an ounce of truth to them. But I can’t help the creeping insecurity. The bad friend in my head materialized before me. Cast in the glow of nightly shadows. Words I have reminded myself of frequently now vocalized. And how could I not even give them a consideration when several friends have now seemingly walked away from me. 

Try to remind myself my own actions did cause that reaction- not them. Can’t be a reflection on them. 

But all those negative thoughts gather in my chest. And I know I am giving him the satisfaction of watching me fight against my terrible instincts. 

The door creaks open. Both of us snap our heads towards the intruder. 

Reno, leans against the threshold of the door, flipping his lighter in his hand. “Well this looks like an intense conversation.”

Sephiroth, not phased by the sudden inclusion, clicks his tongue. “Heard you’re off the team for good, Sinclair.  _ Bummer _ .”

Reno allows a bitter laugh, which crushes the silver-haired boy's smile, and makes his way to me. “Yeah, whatever. I ain’t even into baseball, just did it cause I’m naturally mad fuckin’ good.” He takes his stand next to me. First, running those blue marbles along my face; and like magic, patching up the cracks that formed from Seph’s verbal attack. Then, throws a tight glare at him, “Heard you’re out, too?”

“Yeah,” Sephiroth snaps, “Cause I’m all banged up.”

But Reno tilts his head, “Heard it was ‘cause of the drugs they found in your locker?”

I feel left out of this conversation. Dart my eyes at my boyfriend, who has moved closer to me, as if daring Sephiroth to try anything else. Reno’s features are relaxed except his eyes, bright like lightning. I wonder...how he knew about that development when I hadn’t heard anything from Cid and Barret. Then...wonder...how he got in contact with Rude about the mysterious money he had been hiding. How Rude knew to come to the Wendy’s and meet us- how he knew we would be there…

“How did you-” Sephiroth cuts himself off. And they stare at one another. As if waiting for the other to say something… incriminating. 

“Sucks huh,” Reno looks at me once, giving me a warm smile that seems devilish under the darkness in the room, “was just about to make captain when they found the stuff.” And he looks at Sephiroth, “ _ Bummer _ , am I right?”

A damning understanding falls upon us.

And I wonder...all the things the boy, standing so close I can feel his steady breaths, is capable of. And I am too busy looking at Reno, the sharpness of his face. The way it curls in disgust as he looks at Sephiroth, I don’t acknowledge the other presence in the room. He...is no longer any of my concern. 

Another rumble from the upstairs shakes the house; a sign of life outside this room. 

“One day, Sinclair,” Sephiroth starts, cooly, “you and I are going to have to settle some shit. And it isn’t going to end well for you.”

And Reno’s lips twitch, “I guess we’ll see about that.” and then gives him a two finger salute, “until then…”

I don’t realize my heart racing in my chest until Sephiroth takes his leave- throwing me one more dagger of a look between glowing hazel orbs before he vanishes out the door. And I exhale. Allowing just one last lingering look at the empty space he left. Twelve years. Gone. In a snap. And while Tifa and I may be able to repair what lays broken, the bond Sephiroth and shared severed. 

Now destined to become nothing by a memory I recall in the violent recesses of my mind. 

Reno takes my hand in his, examining the forming bruises on my knuckles. “At least you got a shot in, babe.” He lets go to examine my face; and I can’t describe the swarm of birds that well in my body, and explode, and their feathers raining down, when his slender fingers glide against my chin. “Gotta teach you how to block or something, damn. You get rocked in the face a lot, pretty boy.”

“Hmph,” I grumble. But he takes his hand along my cheeks and buries it in my unruly blonde hair, forcing me gently to look him in the eyes. 

“You’re not letting that shit head get to you right?” He asks.

“I just…” I can’t find the right words to explain the conflict which rages within. Twelve years littered with terrible experiences and a sprinkle of good memories interwoven. I look at the door, the empty space in between. Sephiroth and I had once been a pair- or maybe...I was just a shadow, a burden, upon him. But, I still can’t help but feel this distressing sense of loss as he crushed the remainder of our ties together. “I just thought maybe he would have changed or…”

“Some people...don’t.” Reno sighs, “And maybe he never will. But that’s not really your problem, right? Kid can handle the consequences of his own actions. Or not. The fuck gives a shit.”

I frown, bring my eyes back to him. Toil his words through my head. “Did you have anything to do with the drugs in his locker?”

Reno furrows his brows, “You really wanna know?”

Twitch. “You’re keeping a lot of shit from me, you know.”

“Oh yeah, like what?”

“The money, for one. How Rude knew to meet us? Just…”

He takes a step closer, backing me against the same dresser, trapping me against his body. And I hate how he makes me weak. Hate how my mind can just turn blank. Too much control I’ve given him. Our mouths hovering, barely touching, his breath on mine. The hint of a kiss... “Moonshine.” I arch an eyebrow and he smiles, “My grandfather and I would make moonshine and I would sell it to the kids at my school for mad money. Probably the only reason any of them fucked with me, but whatever. Then when I came up here, I sold weed for Rufus for a bit until just about the time I met you.”

“Really?” I frown, having no idea this illicit life he had before me. 

“Yeah, then I saw how shit you were at dealing, so I decided to retire for a bit.”

“Fuck you man…”

“Where did you come up with your prices, yo!”

“Uh,” I gesture to the open door, “Where you think?!”

He laughs. “I didn’t want to be associated with that shit. Plus, I couldn’t really tell you to stop sellin’ and then do it myself. I ain’t a fucking  _ hypocrite _ .” He adds a venomous tone to the end of his sentence that feels like a direct attack on me. But I swallow the lump in my throat. And just...accept he finally told me a bit about himself. Another layer revealed. 

“Anything else,” he adds, resting our foreheads together. “What was the question you were gonna ask me before?”

I blink. I had forgotten our conversation during the thirty minute walk to the fast food place. And I almost don’t want to bring up the conversation but...since he’s so open at this moment. And I can feel this peak into his life will soon close- “I...was going to ask about your old friends...the ones from Tennessee. Just...you were so sure about min-”

“I told you they weren’t friends. Just acquaintances who had something to offer. I had the car, Gunner had the house. Legend had the drugs. Kit had the fake I.D. We never talked about anything important. Just bitches and getting fucked up.” Sephiroth’s words weigh on my mind and I’m about to say something, when Reno cuts me off. “I know...you ain’t thinkin’ your friends are like that? Whatever that prick said to you is a fucking lie. You have no idea the hoops your friends would jump for you. Remember  _ that _ .”

He sighs, “and besides. Even if they were assholes, you have me...and I have you, right?” I nod. “and that’s all that matters. And he pulls away, dropping his hand from my hair- dragging his fingers down sending, sending chills up my spine. Continuing his descent to my arm, making sure to feel every inch I have to offer. 

Until his hand finds mine. Grabs it, firmly. And it’s like the period at the end of a sentence. The last bit of fear, and reluctance, evaporates. And he whispers against my lips. “ _ Whenever I want.”  _

And we close the gap. Our lips together;

Kissing with the door wide open for the world to see. 

Our reckless love. 

And when he pulls away, he takes with him some of the creeping doubt resting on my shoulders. I never thought I’d have a future past sixteen; no use being fearful of the unknown. 

“I love you, pretty boy,” his smile against mine, “always.”

“I love you, too...always.”

We meet for another kiss but the sounds of feet charging past the door pulls us away from one another. A scramble of bodies flying past the door signals the first sign of trouble. Followed by a frantic knock on the window stealing our attention. Cid, shirtless,his voice barely breaks through the glass of the window but I can make out his words: “Shit went down, cops are coming.” Before runnin away. 

“Why does this shit happen at every fucking party,” Reno huffs. 

“Welcome to Staten Island.” I open the window, the cool air lifting the stuffy haze in the bedroom, “You’re the one who wanted to come by the way.” 

“Oh, right, this is my fault now!”

He feigns anger, but we chuckle as we crawl out the window, into the swarm of bodies trying to escape from the blue and red lights. We run away from gruff warning voices telling us to stop. With the wind piercing our skin. Duck through strangers’ backyards. A well-acted scene I’m used to playing. And I’m sure there’s more mistakes to be made. And I know nothing, not even the love I have for the boy next to me- my partner- could be certain. And there was a time that fear of the unknown would fill my lungs with water...sew my lips shut…

Now, I think I’ll keep running into the great unknown- and take a breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second to last chapter. It's been a wild ride and I really thank every since one of you who have left kudos, commented, shared this story to your friends, reached out to me on tumblr. Anything and everything. I loved talking to all of you during this process and I really feel like it helped me develop my characters. Please let me know what you all think. What questions do you still have that have not been ansswered? What would you like to see next?
> 
> Also, incase you didn't see, I started writing a series of side-shots that take place either before the events of this story or parallel. They are shorter so check them out if you have a chance! 
> 
> Thank you beautiful people!


	41. Janus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is the first day of my life,  
>  Glad I didn't die before I met you. _

It’s the three-year, two month anniversary of my death, and this time I’m celebrating with my guitar and a menthol cigarette since I can’t give up on all my vices. Jeans rolled up, legs in the crisp, cold, chlorinated water, which offers relief from the blaring early afternoon sun. In between long drags of my smoke, I run my hands over the strings of the guitar; a new song dancing on my finger tips. 

I learned recently, the vibration of music freed my lungs of water. And my tongue didn’t swell when used to articulate the lyrics. And within the last several months, I haven’t felt as empty or distant from humanity. 

And that almost brings me comfort. As the dawn of my senior year, in a strange new world, approaches. 

I snuff the smoke into the astray Cid got me for my seventeenth birthday. The singe hissing into the, somewhat, quiet summer day. The distance splashes from pools echo against chirping birds and buzz from lurking insects. There’s a block party around the corner. Sounds of a DJ setting up over the shrill screams of children. The smell of cooked ground beef, mystery meat. Mothers and fathers scolding rowdy mini-versions of themselves as if they didn’t create this mess. The party around the corner is not for me. I’m no longer invited to any of the BBQs my neighbors host-- and by extension, neither are my parents. 

Saint Sebastain’s claimed they didn’t divulge any details as to why the Class of 2006 would be at least two bodies short; but word travels fast on this island. And these proclaimed Christians can’t find forgiveness in their heart. 

_ Hate the sin not the sinner _ ,

If I had a nickel....

They did suggest it was our choice to leave the school and the Church attached; which I guess they could justify that since we willfully exited the building on June 17th, 2005, took off the two button, navy, suit blazer with our school’s emblem stitched over our hearts, and set them on fire in the trashcan in front of the building. And while the administration watched with the gentle shakes of their heads, we offered them the two finger farewell appropriately summed up the last year. 

We were grounded for a whole hour for that stunt. 

Mostly for the fire. It was Reno’s idea. 

He wanted to burn the whole school down, but I needed to remind him he probably couldn’t get away with murder anymore- and while he agreed, the twinkle in his blue eyes implied otherwise. 

Thankfully, there were no charges brought against us for the minor act of wrathful arson. When a day later, my former best friend who spent the remainder of the school year attempting to torture Reno and I any chance he got, drove his car into the school high off his some schmuck’s Bennies. 

The last time anyone saw Sephiroth, he was in handcuffs in the back of a police car- with administration of the school still shaking their heads. Rumor has it, his parents sent him to some boarding school in Russia. Rumor has it, he’s in the Staten Island psych ward because he threatened to murder his mother. Rumor has it, they shipped him across the country to stay with relatives.

Rumors. Rumors. Rumors. Swirl in the mouths of the pathetic fucks that still walk those halls. The ones about me are even better…

But I don’t have it in me to dwell too hard on the words that fall from now vacant lips. The school lays behind me and a new building merges just beyond the horizon. Despite the hoops and red tape, our plan to attend New Dorp High School for senior year became a reality. And in two days, I’ll walk into the beige brick structure in one of my many bands shirts and tattered and ripped jeans and maybe not have to worry as much if someone finds out I’m gay. 

And while I’m bummed I won’t be walking the graduation procession with Cid, Barret, and Aerith, I’m looking forward to spending more time with Tifa - who has almost completely forgiven me- and the rest of the “rocker” gang. 

The sound of the door sliding open slices through the Summer humidity-

“You are looking at the best lifeguard the South Shore has ever seen!” Reno announces to the dull air. 

I smirk, not bothering to turn to view him as he approaches with his shoes scuffing the new pavers Dad put in before the summer. “I guess your temporary retirement party went well?”

“That chick I was tellin’ you about asked for my number,” he takes a seat next to me, kicking off his sneakers and sticking his legs in the cold water with a hiss. 

“Oh word? Did you break her heart?”

“Nah, we have a date tonight,” he snorts, “Actually, I told her she was  _ barkin’ up the wrong tree _ .” He winks. 

“And?”

“She didn’t get it. I had to spell it out for her.” 

“She must have been devastated.”

“She thought I was lyin’!” he shakes his head. “She asked me if I was sure I’m gay! Said I don’t act gay. Like, shit, I didn’t know this was some part I had to play a certain way- the fuck.”

“Did she mumble something about  _ all the hot guys are either taken or gay _ ?”

“Yes, but only after she tried to convince me her pussy was so powerful, it would turn me straight.”

And that earned an uncharacteristic laugh from me. “Damn. She had it bad for you, huh?”

“I mean, look at me, can you blame her?”

I couldn’t exactly deny that his attractiveness was in no way hindered by the bright white shirt with the bold red letters that spelled “Lifeguard” over his chest. And I’ve bore witness to the way he carried himself at the Tottenville public pool, with his tone chest on display, as he blew his whistle and yelled at kids to stop running just to hear his own voice carry the hint of a threat. I’ve seen the way girls fawned over him. And, in a way, I enjoyed living vicariously through his popularity. And I felt a sense of pride that I am the one he comes back home to. 

“I think when I start Starbucks, I’m just gonna walk through the door and announce I’m gay so I don’t break anymore hearts.” he leans back on his elbows, his sunglasses reflecting the glimmer of the sun. “By the way, when you thinkin’ of getting a job over here?”

“I thought my job was to sit here and look pretty?”

“Haha,” he kicks my leg, sending ripples of water along the length of the pool, “I ain’t your sugar daddy, yet.”

“Bummer. Why am I even with you?”

“‘Cause of my huge dick, obviously.”

“Oh, right...how could I forget.”

I hear the crud joke dangling on his lips, but he doesn’t vocalize it; instead, he just glides his foot up and down my leg hidden under the water. This has been the scene of the summer; two of us by the pool, my fingers twirling around the strings of a guitar while he distracts me with his touch. No longer desperate for the need to leave the safety of the backyard to find something to destroy myself with just to feel something again. The woods that lead to New Dorp beach have become overrun with the next generation of delinquents and the older generation who haven’t gotten the memo: it’s time to leave some vices behind. 

That’s not to say that we don’t sneak our fair share of debauchery out of the parents line of sight. But the blackout nights have become a distant, unpleasant, lack of memory. And I’m grateful of the silence that has befallen that bad friend who lurks in the back of my mind…

I tremble my fingers through the C, E and A-minor chords to the rhythm of Reno’s lingering touch. 

“Where’s mom and dad?”

“Ugh, I  _ hate _ when you call them that,” I pause with a scrunch of my nose.

He laughs. “Fine...where’s B-Money and C-span.”

“Out grabbing a buncha shit for the twilight bbq dad’s all excited about.” 

My parents have been more present in the house. Something our family therapist suggested to my chagrin, but their excitement. All these family sponsored events were starting to take a toll on my teenage indifference. They had a standing invitation for all my friends to come over anytime and enjoy the pleasures of the backyard. They spruced up the place. New firepit in the corner, pool regularly cleaned, the rusty furniture thrown out and replaced with a new black rod iron set. The grill which had been unused and housed a wasp nest was safety disposed of in the beginning of Summer and replaced with the newest model. Dad has proclaimed himself the grill master and tries to flex his skills to the other dad’s in the group. The ones who still talk to us. 

Tonight, his new annual labor day twilight bbq is upon us and his and my mother’s enthusiasm is  _ almost _ contagious. 

And maybe when I’m older, I’ll admit these new interactions with my parents have actually been good. And welcomed. And I finally feel I’ve found my father again...after being lost for so long. 

And I’m motivated by my mother’s dedication to staying sober and going back to school to help others. And I’m more proud of her than I’ve ever been. 

“Oh?” Reno’s hand finds its way under my shirt, crawling up my spine like a spider. “So we have this big ol’ house all to ourselves.”

I shiver with a smirk, “Easy. They’ll be home any minute and we almost got caught last time.”

He huffs as he drags his nails down my back to echo his displeasure; but doesn’t press the issue. And I respond with a new set of chords and pluck strings, making the sound of raindrops hitting water. 

“You gonna finally sing me this song you’ve been practicing?”

“No.”

“Someone’s shy all of a sudden.”

“Too intimate.”

His roars with laughter, falling back onto the ground. “This guy,” he laments to the sun. I shake my head, the sun doesn’t have the answers. Maybe the clouds do, however. The ones that roll overhead like destroyed cotton. Like maybe they can see I have already planned on singing this stolen tune for him because it's the closest thing to a summary of how I’ve felt since he collided into my life-like a rogue planet- and evaporated everything I knew. 

There’s a beauty in destruction. A chance to be reborn. 

Reno moves behind me, pulling me close so my back rests against his chest. I feel his breathing, the way his heart pounds like a drum to the tune of my guitar. He slithers his arms around me and the instrument. His left hand reaches and covers mind over the neck of the guitar. 

But I switch us, mold his fingers to the E chord and press them against the metal of the strings. He lays his right hand against mine and follows my movements as I glide my fingers along the strings. The rumble of music vibrates against the both of us…

I think back to a year ago:

How sad I was every day that it made my muscles hurt. And how I couldn’t bear the pain of life that I numbed it until I couldn’t feel anything, for anyone, anymore. 

And I wore a mask I stapled to my face, to hide from everyone. 

And I couldn’t imagine living past sixteen…

But it’s 2005. And the rest of the world can pretend that not caring is trendy. But I’m fine with showing this being behind me, who releases my hands so I can take over the song, how much I care about him and myself. And the life we began to create over the wreckage of our junior year. And I have no time to regret the past when I’m so focused on the future. 

Reno whispers in my ear all the ways he’s fallen in love with me again within the last several minutes. And each word, and phrase, from his loosen lips tickles against my skin. 

And located in his words, I find the answer to the question I had at the very beginning of this story. 

And without much more I could say, I take a deep breath and sing:

  
_ This is the first day of my life… _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally can not believe we have made it to the end. I am equal parts sad and happy this past of the journey is over. And I am so happy to have had a bunch of you join me on this adventure. I hope this ending is satisfactory and sums up the themes present in the story. I hope you got some entertainment out of this little tale. I'm so sad to see it end, but I don't think it's entirely the last we'll hear from Reno and Cloud.
> 
> I can't express the amount of thanks I have for everyone here who has left comments and kudos. This would have never made it this far without your support. I look forward to hearing what everyone has to say about the ending. This is the first story I've completed in over ten years and it feels good; maybe even a little bittersweet. 
> 
> Hope everyone is staying safe and staying healthy. I'll miss our little book clubs, but find me on tumblr if you want to get some "behind the scenes" extras. I'm going to go into detail on this ending wasn't even close to the original! Ha!
> 
> Thank you again everyone <3 See you all soon!


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